Seeing Is Believing
by sherlollymouse
Summary: COVER ART BY SHERLOLLY29 Sherlock Holmes was killed and now, to his own surprise, he's back from the dead. The obvious reason is to solve is own murder, but Molly Hooper is the only one that can see him. Everyone, sometimes even she, is convinced she may be loosing her mind, but with a killer on the loose, she's not sure what else to do other than trust Sherlock.
1. Dead or Alive

He had finally done it. Molly ground her teeth and held back tears, she was just as sad as she was angry. He'd always ran head first into danger, she always thought it was going to end like this.  
Mycroft had pulled some strings and made certain she'd perform the autopsy because 'he would have wanted it that way'.  
It felt a lot colder in the room as she pulled down the cloth. Professional or not, she almost didn't want to expose his genitals, but she was working, this was work and this was part of the job.  
"Ok." She whispered, mentally preparing herself and began to start the recording for the records. "The date is Monday, October 27th, 2014…"  
"Huh, what is that?" Molly screamed as she looked up to see a familiar face… one that matched the corpse on the table.  
"You—you're…"  
"Thats a really odd color, don't you think? Its clear your killers going to kill again."  
"You're dead." She said, sternly. "You are dead and you are right here on this table."  
"What?" Sherlock scoffed. "You thought this was me?"  
"Wh-what are you doing?"  
"You can't be expected to find the killer on your own and I'm the only one who's seen his face." He smiled, smugly, then looked away confused. "His face…"  
"What about it?"  
"I—uh— can't seem to remember it… I think the bullet may have gone through that part of my mind palace… pierced it… but, I should be able to recall it, somehow. I mean, the brains a big computer and I have back ups."  
"Sh-show me where?" She asked. He showed her his wound, in the back of his head. Slowly, she lifted the body up and showed him the corresponding injury on his body. He seemed to recognize himself at that point, but, he still wasn't ready to believe.  
"Thats—"  
"Your head. Its your head,Sherlock, you are dead. You are on this table dead and I am to spend today cutting you up and examining your organs." He was at a loss for words.  
"Then—then how am I—" He pressed his hands against his chest. "here? If I'm dead, how am I here talking to you?"  
"I don't know."  
"This is a mistake. It has to be some sort of mistake." He began laughing, louder than she'd ever heard him laugh and Molly wasn't sure what to do. Her chest felt heavy and tight and she decided she needed to sit down. Repositioning the body back on the slab, she walked over to a chair in the corner.  
"I think I'm having a nervous break down." She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. "I might be sick." The trashcan scrapped the linoleum floor as she brought it between her knees.  
"You? You don't have a friend trying to convince you you're dead. Its a damn good look-a-like by the way, I'll give you that. Where did Mycroft find him and why?"  
"You idiot, you are dead. You're dead. D-E-A-D dead!"She appeared to still be trying to laugh it off, but when he saw she was crying he stopped. "Go look… closer, Sherlock." Swallowing hard, he obliged.  
"Oh." His voice cracked as he looked over what was most definitely his body. "How did it happen?" He asked, slowly.  
"We just know you got shot, no one else was there."  
"So, you don't even know who it was that shot me?"  
"Sherlock, we don't even know why you were there." With a hard nod, he looked away, as if it hurt his eyes.  
"So, uh, does Lestrade have any leads?"  
"Lestrade took a leave of absence. Dimmock is on your case. Mycroft had to make them have me do your autopsy." Molly shook her head. "Which, I'm obviously not capable of doing right now." As quickly as she could, she prepared him to go back into cold storage.  
Absentmindedly, he began searching through the pockets of his Belstaff. "No phone."He muttered. "So, I guess its clear what you need to do."  
"Yes, I need to take some time off. Obviously, your death has affected me more than I thought."  
"What? No! You need to get Lestrade to go back to work and take my case! Can't have my murderer running around the streets of London, posturing to kill again. No, no. Lestrade is the only DI worth a damn down there and you." He pulled her away as she closed the drawer and turned her to face the doors. "have a lot of fast talking to do." He smiled and walked her out into the hall.  
Cursing herself and her luck, she figured she was going crazy, but figured whatever part of her mind she was loosing was telling the truth. Greg Lestrade might be the only one who could solve Sherlock murder. Perhaps, if she appeased whatever this was, it would go away.

"I'm so glad you came." She cooed as Greg made his appearance at the cafe and drew him over to the table. It was in the back of the shop, and the lighting was a little bad, but the beautiful, decorative mirror behind them lit it up. It was square, like the windows, and framed in gold with a design of vines carved into it.  
"Of course, Molly, anything for you." He said, pulling her in for a large hug. For awhile, they just sort of shot the breeze, talking about mundane things. Interestingly enough, she didn't know Greg also had a cat. "Now," he adjusted himself,leaning forward and looking Molly right in the eyes. "What is this really about? I mean, you didn't call me out here to talk about cats… you ok?"  
"I'm fine… I just…" She took a deep breath. "I— we— You need to solve Sherlock's murder. You, not Dimmock."  
"Look, you know," He continued, more aggressively. "You know damn well I want who ever shot Sherlock to rot but I— I just don't think I'd be the man for the job. Even if they allowed me to work on it, which they wouldn't—"  
"Mycroft could fix that."  
"They wouldn't put me on it, Molls."  
"Yes, they would… if you wanted on the case, you could have it and you know." Licking her lips, she looked away and decided to change her approach. "Sherlock would have wanted it to be you on the case." Greg drooped back into his seat, rolling his eyes, looking a bit worse for wear and deflated. She had him.  
"Maybe." He focused on the mug and stuck his tongue out of the side of his mouth a bit, thinking. "If—and I'm not saying I do, but, If I do want this… do you really think you could get Mycroft to let them put me on it? I mean, they don't let friends or relatives of the victim on the murder cases."  
"I'm certain." She said, pulling out her phone and opening up the contact list.


	2. Invisible Friends

"It's good to have friends in high places." Lestrade laughed as they walked out of Scotland Yard into the sun.  
"Yes, it is. It always pays to be a friend of Sherlocks." Her smile faded as she reluctantly corrected herself. "To have been a friend of Sherlocks."  
"Right." The callous on his hand was rough enough for her to feel through her shirt as he patted her on the shoulder. "Are you sure you're alright?"  
"I'm fine, Greg. Really, I am." Somehow, his nod wasn't as reassuring as she knew it was meant to be, especially when she saw Sherlock appear just behind the comforting smile. Giving her one of his flirty grins and a wave.  
"Something wrong?" Lestrade asked.  
"Uh- Nope, nothing is wrong at all." It took a lot of effort to be convincing this time with her expression, especially with Sherlock approaching. "I need to go, now, Greg, I'll talk to you later."  
"Now, wait a minute, you were Sherlocks last-to-see. I need to talk to you about that." Sherlock's face flooded with panic.  
"You were the last to see me? Why can't I remember?" Mournfully, he placed his hand on the back of his head. Molly ignored the man that might not even be there and talked to the one she knew was. She really wasn't sure how well she could handle this.  
"He stopped by the lab to use the equipment. Didn't tell me what he was doing."  
"That can't be all, I mean, was he acting normally?" She seemed to consider for a moment.  
"No… I'd seen him worse." She attempted to compensate. "but his mind was on something."  
"Did I tell you, Molly?" She gasped when Sherlocks fingers touched her shoulder and was relieved when he pulled back.  
"What do you think it could have been?" Greg had taken out a small notebook and was scribbling in it.  
"Not sure… but.. uh… my guess was someone he cared about in some way was in trouble. Although, I have seen him try to not show he feels guilt." A tiny laugh escaped her lips and looked down at the pavement.  
"So, its possible he did something wrong?"  
"Not likely, but yes. Its more likely he needed to protect someone… maybe one of us." Lestrade nodded and clicked his pen.  
"I had a phone call." Sherlocks face lit up. All day, his mind had been like a huge jigsaw puzzle that he couldn't find all the pieces to put together. "Someone rang me while I was dead or dying, I'm not sure which, and the man took my phone. He sent it to voice mail. They need to fingerprint my phone."  
"You need to finger print his phone." She added, as he turned away. The look she received when Gregs eyes where back on her was a very confused look. "The killer picked up his phone. Probably pressed a button or two…"  
"How would you know that?" Molly wasn't sure what to say, she really had spoken to fast.  
"Just a guess." She shrugged.  
"Yeah, not one we'd gotten to yet. His phone was still in his coat pocket. How would you know the killer picked it up?"  
"I don't know, I just do."  
"If you know something I don't, you have to tell me, otherwise, you're going to look like a suspect, Molly and I have to do my job."  
"I understand, really, I do… just, make sure you've processed it."  
"I will, don't worry about that. Maybe—uh, maybe you should go home."  
"Oh, no, I have to get back to Bart's, I've been gone too long already. I wouldn't want to…"  
"I'll let them know that you were talking to me and I held you up. But, I really do think you should just take the day… maybe even a week or two and just… you know…" She could hear Sherlock scoff as she hung her head but as a single tear slid welled up in her eyes, she knew his expression changed.  
"If I tell you something, will you promise not to repeat it?"  
"Not if it has—"  
"It has nothing to do with his murder." Lestrade nodded and Molly took a deep breath.  
"No, Molly, you can't." Sherlock warned.  
"I— I keep seeing him. And not in one of those 'in the smile of every child' crap, but in the —uh— full figure apparition sort of sense." It was hard for her to even look him in the eye.  
"His ghost? You think you see his ghost?" Everything in his tone and expression conveyed his disbelief.  
"I'm not crazy, Greg, I swear to you. I'm completely sane but I think… I think he's haunting me and I don't know why." Lestrade released a deep sigh, and adjusted his stance, placing his hand on her shoulder.  
"If you really believe you see Sherlock—"  
"—I do see Sherlock, he's here right now." She gestured and Sherlock stood there,tossing glances between the two of them. As Greg looked right through him, he shrugged as if attempting to relate to Lestrades confusion. "He's really there." She argued.  
"If you believe he's there, I believe you." He comforted her.  
"But you don't see him." If nothing else,the DI appeared honest in an expression of regret. He seemed to have really wanted to have seen Sherlock. Probably for a myriad of reasons.  
"Take my advice, Molly and take the time off. Anderson didn't last time and you've seen him. He came a bit unhinged… writing weird stories about Sherlock on the net and all that. You know, he's doing it again… maybe you should join the resurrected Empty Hearse." He joked a bit, teasingly. Molly couldn't help but laugh at Sherlocks exasperated reaction. A heavy sigh and rolling his eyes.  
"No, no, I don't need any of that, Greg. But, thank you." She hugged him good bye and wandered off to catch a taxi.  
"Why would you do something like that, Molly? You're smarter than that." She ignored his attempts to scold her, which seemed to annoy him more, but did he expect. She'd already made a fool of herself trying to show him to Lestrade, why would she talk to him in public.  
"Stop it, just stop right now." She hissed as she climbed in her cab. "St. Barts, please." For the next 10 minutes she allowed him to groan and moan as they approached the hospital and even let him continue as she dawned her lab coat. By this time, she had completely blocked him out and stopped to splash some water on her face.  
"Molly, you're not crazy." He said, softly, as she looked at her reflection in the mirror. "I really am here, I promise." Blinking, she shifted her eyes to meet his reflection.  
"Then why couldn't Greg see you?" She whispered.  
"I don't know, Molly, but you have to believe me, please." The desperation in his voice forced her to turn around to look him dead on.  
"Why should I believe you?"  
"Because if you don't believe…."With a sigh, he collapsed onto the bench. "I went to see John when you met up with Lestrade."  
"And?" Softly, she planted herself next to him.  
"He couldn't see or hear me either… no body else can, Molly. No one. So, if you give up… if you choose not to believe your own eyes…what would happen to me?"  
"You'll have to forgive me, Sherlock, but you haven't really been acting like yourself…"  
"I was shot through the head… trauma like that can cause personality changes."  
"The American Crowbar case."  
"Yes, but, well, my damage doesn't seem as advanced as his…. but, I'm having trouble remembering things. I'm not use to that."  
"Listen, Sherlock… maybe we should look at your body—"  
"No, —please, could you work on someone else… please?"  
"Mycroft is coming in today, if you're not on the table, what am I suppose to say?"  
"Well, you can try the truth…"  
"Tell Mycroft his dead brothers ghost is following me around?"  
"Maybe he'll believe you?"  
"You know he won't, but maybe I can tell him I'm not ready… I mean, I didn't know how I was going to do it this morning, anyway."


	3. What's His Name

Molly hesitated as she met Mycroft's gaze.  
"He asked me not to." She said, simply.  
"My brother asked you not to autopsy him?" She nodded. "Dr. Hooper, you must understand, I don't believe it was the gunshot wound."  
"What?"  
"What?" Sherlock and Molly replied in unison.  
"Yes, I didn't get a good look at the body but I'm certain it wasn't the gunshot wound."  
"Then, what do you think it was?" Molly remembered Mycroft couldn't see or hear or his brother, so she repeated his question.  
"I was rather hoping you could figure it out." The elder Holmes sighed.  
"We will." Molly nodded, hands firmly planted on the empty autopsy table.  
"Forgive me, Dr. Hooper, but I hope you're not under the impression that I—"  
"Oh, no, no, Mr. Holmes. I was talking about Sherlock." Absentmindedly, she gestured to him, forgetting again that no one else could see him.  
"I'm sorry?" A bit panicked now, Molly tried to save herself.  
"Oh, no, he's not here."Sherlock stepped forward, curious and a bit hopeful. "That would be silly. He's in there." She said, pointing to the cold storage. "I simply meant he'd be with me" She swallowed hard. "…in my heart." Finished babbling, she placed her open palm on her chest. Sherlock made an annoyed noise and rolled his eyes.  
"Molly, you can't tell him now, he'll commit you." He said.  
"I see." Molly wasn't sure what type of face Mycroft was making, but she was certain he couldn't think any less of her.  
"Do you believe in ghosts, Myc- Mr. Holmes?" She asked, and he chuckled.  
"No, why would I?" She took a deep breath, but thought better of what she was about to say. "No reason." She sighed.  
"Dr. Hooper, maybe you should take some time off."  
"Oh, I'm not sure I—"  
"Nonsense. Sherlock's not going to be any less dead when you get back*. Take the week, but then, I need you to — do your job." With that, he was off, and the squeak and slam of the door filled the morgue.  
"Good,Molly."  
"Really?"  
"No, now he thinks you're completely mad."  
"Don't be mean, Sherlock." She scowled. "I never know how to handle your brother. But, I'm glad he remembered I'm a doctor this time. Besides, I'm not so sure I haven't gone mad."

The entire afternoon, Molly had done her best to hold her tongue; to be sensitive to the fact that he might be real and, if he was… he had no one else. But, Sherlock didn't appear to be trying at all to make it easier on her.  
"…why does she pursue romantic relationships if they aren't for her?… We need to go back and examine my body, Molly. Mycroft is rarely wrong about these things… Really, must we watch this nonsense?" With a loud groan, she turned off RENT.  
"No, we don't." Her eyes flittered to her phone on the coffee table as it chimed a reminder. "Oh, god." Molly worried at her lower lip as she exhaled.  
"What it is?" There was a touch of panic in his voice as he spoke.  
"Sherlock, I have plans tonight."  
"Plans? To do what?" She didn't need to answer, just allow him to examine her face a moment. "Oh, god." He groaned, rolling his eyes and sighing heavily.  
"Sherlock, I've already canceled on him twice… I have to go tonight." Without so much as a second glance, she made her way to the bathroom and closed the door behind her.  
The shower warmed to her liking, lost in the steam and jamming to some early Britney Spears.  
"…crazy, but it feels alright…ahhhhh!" Her shrill screamed echoed off the bathroom walls. "Sherlock! What is your bloody problem. I'M NAKED!" The equally unclothed man shrugged beside her.  
"It's not like I desire to do anything about it, Molly." Angrily, she slapped him a crossed the face. Sherlock responded by wriggling his nose and straightening out his face. "Apparently, I lack pain response as well. Hmmm… do that again."  
"Gladly." Without a second thought, she backhanded him. Throughly expecting a lighter hit, she easily knocked him off balance and on to the bathroom floor. "PISS OFF, SHERLOCK!"  
"I just figured I'd advise you against wearing your expensive perfume. Thought it would, I don't know, save you some aggravation."  
"Sherlock, please go away." She pleaded, trying to focus on exfoliating.  
"I am not sure how."  
"You've done it before!" Molly demanded.  
"I know, but when I tried this time, I ended up…well, here."  
"You're lying, Sherlock."  
"I am not. Look at my face!" He pulled the curtain away and pointed to it, demandingly. Shielding her breasts, she, reluctantly obliged.  
"Fine, you aren't lying."  
"Thank you." She took the curtain back and closed it angrily. "So, tell me about your… date." He spat the word.  
"He's a very nice man. Works for a barrister doing… something or other, can't really remember. But,… uh… he.. he likes Toby… we met online."  
"Online?"  
"Ye-yes. We met online and…" She felt a gush of wind and knew he'd left. "NO SHERLOCK!"

She was sure her makeup looked weird, and the halogen lights at the little hole in the wall he took her to didn't do her any favors. Molly could tell that without looking.  
"Yeah," her date chuckled,"it took me eons to find this place." He was explaining.  
A distressed Sherlock groaned and sat in the chair between them.  
"It's such a great place!" Andy?… ran his hand through his hair.  
"No, its not." Sherlock argued.  
"I'm sure it is." Molly smiled, politely.  
"Don't lie, Molly." Sherlock groaned.  
"Shut up, Sherlock." She whispered through gritted teeth.  
"Yeah, this place is pretty boss." Casually, Tony?… sat back in his chair, balancing it on the back to legs and setting his shoulders against the wall.  
"Boss?" She asked, seeing Sherlock make an expression that looked both disgusted and offended.  
"It's American slang. You'll have to forgive me. I'm a bit of a yank at heart." He explained in a terrible American accent.  
"Oh, I see." She smiled.  
"Oh, god." Sherlock snorted, but seeing her disapproving glance his way, held his tongue.  
"So,..uh… what do you suggest?" Molly asked, fondling with the menu.  
"Oh, don't worry about that." Her date casually took the lamenated piece of paper out of her hand. "I called ahead and ordered for us."  
For the next hour or so… Arnie? went on and on about his love for America… baseball, Chicago hotdogs… Molly had found the white noise of Sherlock drumming his nails almost comforting. Still, much like a mother with a misbehaving son, she'd made sure to shoot a look every once in awhile, quietly sipping her water.  
"Molly, this guy is a twat." Shocked at this out of character outburst, Molly choked on her drink.  
"You alright?" Her date asked, and she nodded, giving Sherlock a wide eyed glare.  
"That's the first time he's asked about you this entire time… you can't possibly see any future with him."  
"Umm… I need the loo." She choked, excusing herself.  
Once in the toilet, she flipped on the tap and rinsed off her face.  
"So, how much longer are you going to fake interest in American baseball player's earned runs averages?" Sherlock asked, annoyed.  
"Your behavior is completely unnecessary." She hissed."Can't you wait for me at home?"  
"I already explained… "  
"Explained what?"  
"I can't seem to… to leave you, Molly. I can't go anywhere else except where you do."  
"That's just bloody brilliant, isn't it?"  
"You think I want to sit here and listen to Calvin drone on about his near fetish for all things American? It's certainly not how I'd like to be spending our time."  
"Oh, and how would you like to be spending OUR time, please, tell me."  
"Finding out what happened to me… we haven't even gone back to the crime scene, Molly. We're wasting valuable time."  
"Fine." She relented, through gritted teeth. "I'll just excuse myself and I will take you to where you died… maybe you'll remember something." Molly pushed through the door and approached her date… who was, apparently, named Calvin, though she was sure it had begun with an "A" and ended in a "y" or an "ie"… didn't really matter at this point.  
"Listen, I'm not feeling well."  
"Probably the garbage this disgusting place sells." Sherlock groaned.  
"So, I'm just going to get a taxi home… thank you for a lovely evening…."  
"Calvin." He reminded her.  
"Calvin." She brought him into a quick embrace and assured him that all she needed was to lay down before rushing out into the London night to hale a taxi.  
"I swear," She sighed, after giving the driver the address. "you are such a child! You couldn't sit through dinner without throwing some sort of fit, could you?"  
"I think I kept myself together very well, thank you. I didn't choose to tag along on your date… you sort of drug me along with you."  
"I didn't force you to do anything, you just came along."  
"I told you, I can't leave. I've tried, Molly."  
"Fine. Fine. Just… we're almost there."  
"Uh, Miss… are you alright?" The driver asked.  
"Of course, why do ask?"  
"He can't see me." Sherlock reminded her.  
"No reason, Ma'am." She felt her face turn a bright red as they arrive and she passed up the fare.


	4. Something Found

The alleyway was perfectly silent aside from the sound of Molly's feet clicking against the pavement. As they wandered out of the streetlamps light,the temperature dropped and the glow of the moon gave the scene an ethereal and creepy feel. She paused for a moment, sucking in enough air to completely fill her lungs and swallow her heart back down to its place in her chest before she could continue through the police tape to the dead end created by the surrounding buildings.

"You were found here, Sherlock." She whispered, pointing beneath the fire escape to a chalk outline covered in glass from a broken mirror. Done observing her, he finally stepped forward to examine the location better. Touching the dust that surrounded the outline gave him an odd feeling in his stomach he had to suppress.

"I must have fallen from the second floor,... judging by how I landed…. but I…" His mind, as always, was going a million miles a minute, but he couldn't access his mind palace as he normally did…. And it hurt.

He was remembering and it was very uncomfortable.

Downright painful.

With flashes of memories returning to him that he couldn't make sense of.

Colors, voices and feelings… for a moment, he lost himself. His eyes were welling up. He was upset. He felt fear, compassion… a desire to help and… he wanted to get high.

Whatever this was, it had triggered him. He was afraid of something…. but not terrified… this was a concern and frustration… flowing through him much like blood would. His hands were shaking, his eyes were blurring with tears and all he wanted was to call his brother and make him fix this.

Wait. This was something Mycroft could have fixed. That was a clue.

Calling his big brother must have been part of his plan, but he couldn't focus now, he was sick with worry about something. There was an urgency to this. He tried to fight it… contain his focus,but it refused to stay tethered to the ground.

Sherlock turned to walk away, eyes burning and stomach churning, and made his way to the edge of the streetlights.

Molly simply observed for a few moments. He was doubled over and breathing hard, as if he had just finished running a marathon. She watched him twist and grumble a bit, catching his breath or something like it but, as a friend and a doctor, she knew something wasn't right.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" She asked quietly, stepping over to squat next to him in the shadow of the lamps illumination. He sniffled a bit and straightened up, insisting he was fine, it was just time to leave. "I'm not sure that we -" He dismissed her objections and toddled off, one hand squeezing at his belly.

Before she turned to follow him, a faint glimmer in the dark caught her eye. It was of interest, for sure, she thought, but having only a small sandwich bag in her purse, that would have to do.

Emptying out her tampons from it, she decided that, if Sherlock was real, this was going to be very hard for him, harder than either of them thought it would be. Meaning she was going to have to do much of this alone. From her perspective, though, there wasn't much of a choice.

That night she lay awake, thinking. Molly knew Sherlock never slept or ate while on one of his cases and was beginning to realize why; he probably couldn't stop thinking long enough to sleep and was simply too distracted to eat. It wasn't some conscious decision all the time. When your mind is as busy as a hive of bees it's hard to snuff them out.

The buzzing is frantic and insistent, bidding you to focus. And who was she to argue, after all, she loved honey.

Those were her thoughts that night as she lay in bed. Tossing and turning with that swarm of bees until she gave in; decided how much she longed for this case to be solved. It would be sweeter than any honey that had slid across her tongue, she thought, to have all the answers and to know.

Closing her eyes, she allowed her thoughts to run away with her. There would be no more fighting with this desire tonight, she needed an answer. There was someone depending on her, after all, Sherlock needed her.

Sherlock missed his old life. Well, he missed his life. In this form, whatever form it was, he was constricted. Sometimes, he could take a short trip far away from here, but, since the disappointment of his trip to see John, it'd gotten worse.

Now there were really only two places he could end up on a typical trip so he decided to allow the bind he had with Molly to tighten to discomfort. He was wearing her thin, he was certain of it. She'd never say so, though, seriously. It would be in a fit brought on by frustration and fatigue of every sort. Never from her clear headed.

In the darkness of her apartment, surrounded by the ticking of her cat wall clock, the purring of a real one, and the deep chill in his core he sometimes felt, he loudly wondered what would happen if she grew tired of his presence before they had their answers. After all, she wasn't obligated to help him and it'd be wrong of him to make her, but what else could he do right now?

In his mind, he didn't see many more options for himself. When he had a private moment, like now, he would fuss and worry about her patience and how much time she would give him before she no longer trouble herself with him.

He felt vulnerable; like a panicky, injured wild animal. Molly was his only protection. Right now, he wasn't even himself. Fickle and flippant, prone to emotional distress, so much more externally emotional and his mind palace seemed broken.

Carefully, he rubbed at the back of his head, examining it as much as he could. Mycroft didn't think it was this. Why not? For a few ticks of the novelty clock, he finally felt like himself… like he was onto something as he pulled at the thread of his thoughts with one hand and rubbed through his locks with the other, but that changed abruptly.

Sherlock flung his eyes open in the dark and shuddered.

Wrong! He thought, fighting a new sensation he immediately detested. Squirming, frozen and aching, he immediately knew what was happening to him.


	5. You Move Me

The sun's rays warming her body and stabbing at her optic nerves finally made Molly decide it was time to get out of bed. She never fully lost consciousness, but she'd been resting for hours. Lazily, she pulled herself into the kitchen and started some coffee. Though she was still a bit groggy, Molly felt pretty well rested and a bit excited about the day.

She'd been swimming in the nectar of her own ideas all night and, now, she was ready to bounce them off Sherlock. Hopefully, she'd just be jogging his memory, but she wasn't sure what exactly would work, so it was really a shot in the dark.

It must be frustrating for him, she thought, knowing he has all the answers but can't remember them.

Still a bit wired and sipping her coffee, she chopped up an apple for her porridge and hummed Europe's 'The Final Countdown' to herself. It didn't really cross her mind to question where Sherlock was until she turned around with her bowl to see, the visible lump in his throat and red rimming his eyes.

"What's wrong?" Molly asked, noting his ragged look.

"Someone touched my body last night." The detective swallowed at the lump, bidding it to move, but it remained and so did his uncharacteristic look.

"Wh-what do you mean someone touched your body?" As carefully as she could, she pulled out her kitchen chair and began to eat.

"I mean, someone in the morgue last night opened up the cold storage and examined my body."

"Well- Well, who was it?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?" She insisted, raising to retrieve her forgotten mug of coffee, even if she had gotten any sleep at all last night, she could tell she'd need caffeine for this.

"I didn't see it, Molly, I felt it." When she turned to meet his eyes again, a realization flooded over her. The deep, vulnerable look he gave her… this was a man who was coming to her and telling her someone physically violated him. No matter the intention, his consent was not given, he hadn't even had a chance to question it, someone just came in and explored his cold, naked body without his consent. Gently, she returned to her seat.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. Whatever you need… whatever you want us to do next, we will, ok?" He didn't return her sympathetic gaze, instead, he nodded and walked out to the living room to pace. Not certain what else to do, Molly finished her breakfast and coffee and ran some water to rinse her dishes.

"I want to be moved." She gasped as she felt his presence land directly behind her.

"I'm not sure how -"

"I want my body moved." Feeling the insistence in his voice, she acknowledged this was a demand. He no longer felt his body was safe in the bowels of St. Barts hospital.

"Ok." Sherlock was her friend and if he didn't feel safe, she'd move the world to change that. "What's the plan?"

Molly was surprised she could stay so level headed. She marveled at how many people she worked with that hadn't noticed she'd been on a bit of forced holiday. It kind of gave her a heavy feeling in her stomach and she wondered why she was so invisible to some people.

"It's not that they don't like you, Molly." Sherlock responded to her inner thoughts. "Or that they think anything negative about you… they just... you go into your own little world when you're working and some people find you hard to engage with here. I'd find it more complimentary than anything else." A bit bemused, she convinced herself she must have said something out loud or he'd read it on her face.

"I just don't get it. I just -" She sucked in a breath, "thought I had more friends, that's all."

"And you do! They're just- you know, work friends." Molly didn't remember this hall being so long and twisty, but she'd also never feared getting in trouble down here. "You have a chat or a giggle on breaks and when you pass each other in the hall, occasionally grab a pint after work… you know, work mates. That's all they really are." Sherlock was so casual about this, but it really made Molly sad.

"I just thought we were closer, that's all."

"Well, you're not. Doesn't have to be a big deal." Finally, they stood before the cold storage.

"Why not?" She asked, opening the drawer and revealing his body.

"Because… I mean, you have really close mates." His tone changed, but she wasn't looking up at him as she pulled some of Tom's old clothes out of her lab coat pockets. "So… so, as long as you have a close friend or two it shouldn't matter how close you are to your work mates."

"Well," She thought aloud, adjusted the body in the drawer to clothe it. "I suppose. I mean, not as close as you and John,... but I do have close mates. I suppose. I mean, I think… I thought I was close enough to the people I work with for them to notice when I was gone."

"They might not notice until they realize they have more more work to do." Molly frowned a bit up at Sherlock. "I'm complimenting you, you're a very hard worker." He insisted.

"I know, I get it… I just- wish they cared more. I mean, I've been gone close to three days."

"You missed one shift, Molly."

"Two."

"Alright, you've missed two shifts. That wouldn't even suggest a serious illness let alone any reason to be concerned. They'd assume you had a really bad tummy ache or a migraine. Nothing life threatening." Molly grunted as she finally finished pulling on the trousers.

"I suppose you're right." She sighed and braced herself to sit the body up. "Now, when I'm done with this, I'm going to have to get one of the wheelchairs in the hallway. Are you certain you want to do this?"

"Absolutely." She nodded, understanding how important this must be to him. In her mind though, she wondered if it wasn't just one of the other doctors innocently examining the body, but, the intent didn't much matter; Sherlock obviously felt violated. The red around his eyes had barely faded and the Sherlock she'd been talking to had paled, noticeably.

"God, you're heavy." She strained to sit him up. "I guess it never occurred to me. I mean, I move bodies all the time, I moved yours, but I've never had to dress up one before." Finishing the last button, she plopped him down a huff.

"Careful!' He winced.

"Sorry. I'm not always that rough with my patients, but, then again, I've never heard them complain." She giggled a bit and went to retrieve a chair.

Alone for a few moments, Sherlock stared at his own body. Staring closely at the purple dust on his neck… finally, he could get a better look at that interesting color he'd seen. Purple dust.

"Molly," he asked, hearing her push in the chair. "what does this look like to you?' Pulling away the collar a bit to reveal his throat, he met her eyes. Obliging, she leaned over him.

"It looks like… " She let out a small laugh. "Thats powdered glitter. Sherlock, who was close enough to you to get glitter on your adam's apple?" Some color returned to his face as he stared off, allowing Molly to struggle with his body.

"I don't know. I can't remember…" His face twitched into a frown. "Not done yet?" With the dirtiest look she could muster, she scoffed up at him as she struggled to sit him upright.

"Well, you're not exactly any help. Now, are you?" With that, she swore. "The eyes. I think I have a pair of sunglasses in my desk drawer." Once again, he was alone, pleased she seemed in a good mood today, maybe she wasn't growing as impatient and tired with him as he'd thought. That glittery powder was going to drive him mad, though, he thought to himself as she came in, adorning his body with a pair of white, cat eye sunglass. He wrinkled his nose at them.

"Alright, Sherlock, where to?" He past her a smug grin.

"I know just the place."


	6. Delivering Me

Molly grumbled as she hailed the cab. Of course he wanted his body clear across town… This meant that a cab was necessary because she certainly wasn't about to push him that far.  
"Should we ring him?" She strained as she pulled his body from chair to car.  
"No point to that, he'd only tell you 'no'." Sherlock shrugged, waiting for her to finish adjusting his body.  
"You- uh- you need help, ma'am?" Having been watching her struggle, the driver attempted to intervene.  
"No - no. No problem here." Whether the driver had seen a corpse ever in his life or not, a good look at the body she was fighting with would only give rise to questions she didn't want to have to answer.  
"It would just appear that your husband -"  
"He's fine, thank you, just on a new pain medication," Molly insisted.  
"Shouldn't he be under care of a doctor, then. I mean, I'm not trying to-"  
"I AM A DOCTOR." The pathologist stopped what she was doing to look the driver straight in the eyes with a look as cold and offended as she could muster. The driver withdrew, apologising and turning to face the windscreen. Within moments, Sherlock's cold body was set in the back and buckled in. Molly stuffed the wheelchair in the boot and finally took her own seat opposite him. "This isn't going to go well," she whispered to the Sherlock that'd been haunting her, before giving the driver the address.  
"It'll go fine, Molly, you just need to be insistent. Don't take 'no' for an answer." His partner in crime grumbled at his response. "Everything is going to go well. You'll see."  
"That's so easy for you to say, you know, you've always been so confident and manipulative…. Some people just aren't like that, Sherlock. It's not fun to do that all the time." She covered her mouth with one hand and closed her eyes, allowing herself a few breaths. "What I'm trying to say, Sherlock, is that I'm not going to be as rude, arrogant or forceful as you because it's just not in my nature and I don't like how it makes me feel."  
"Well, you're going to have to be if we're going to solve my murder." The reply was a bit flippant, but Molly was prepared to nip it in the bud.  
"No-no! See the great thing about our situation is we still have your expertise, but not your mouth. So, you go ahead and do your job and I will translate for you. I promise you, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar."  
"I've used that tactic often."  
"To hurt people." In the center seat, he wiggled a bit.  
"Collateral damage. It was never intentional."  
"Collateral- Are you kidding me?" Molly huffed, obviously unhappy with him.  
"Molly, I've never purposely hurt you. You know you matter." Indifferent to his reassurance, she continued on.  
"Listen, that's just how this is going to play out," she explained. "Until we figure out who killed you, I'm just going to have to be your mouthpiece."  
Molly turned her nervous, fluttery, gaze away from the detective and his body to observe her driver. She hadn't realized that she'd been talking in a normal tone this whole time, and he'd clearly heard it all. "Eyes on the road, please; you're liable to kill us if you keep eavesdropping and spying on your passengers."  
"Yes, ma'am." With that, Sherlock uttered a bit of a giggle.  
"Shut up, Sherlock."  
"More flies with honey, eh?" She refused to reply to his snarky assertion as she saw their destination appear ahead of them through the windscreen.  
"Now, the hard part." Molly fussed at her bag, paying the driver and throwing a leg out before he had even completely stopped the vehicle.  
Circling round to the boot, she began rapping on it impatiently, before he'd set his brake. The click was a relieving sound to her as she buzzed about, fighting with the chair, and then fighting with the body.  
"I should tell you," Sherlock began, as the taxi driver squealed away from them urgently, "Women aren't traditionally allowed in the Diogenes Club."  
"Oh, that's lovely. I suppose I can't expect much more from you, now can I?" What could she say? She'd been so chipper just a few short hours ago, but with the mention of Sherlock's elder brother, in addition to the tedious wrestling match with a limp body and the embarrassment she'd suffered on the ride over, Molly's mood had certainly soured. "I need coffee," she murmured, fighting the chair up the steps. Though she pretended not to be listening, he continued to chatter on with concern for his body, as well as informing her she was being watched.  
Up the stairs, through the door, she pushed the chair as fast as she could. Her very presence, with its lack of invitation, had brought the storm-troopers out in their three-piece suits and stoney faces. The quiet of the club forced the henchmen's footsteps to echo off the walls. Nearing the stairs that lead down to Mycroft's office though, the wheels locked up on her. She swore and threw a panicked look at both Sherlock and his body, unsure of how to proceed.  
Out of options, she positioned herself in front of the chair and managed to drag the body across her back into a fireman's carry. Stumbling a bit, with her feet aflame and heart a-flutter, she sang another string of curses and she stumbled down the stairs. As she made it to the door, the body had slipped a little too far up her shoulder and was sliding over. So Molly laid him down against the door and forced it open, before dragging him in and dropping him at Mycroft's feet, out of breath.  
Immediately upon observing the living, breathing, mass of chaos on his floor, the elder Holmes rose to close his office door, bidding Anthea to send the foot soldiers away.  
"Do come in, Miss Hooper. The fate of the free world can certainly wait while you nurse your broken heart on my floor."  
"Doctor," she grunted, using a chair to lift herself onto her feet. "It's Doctor Hooper, Mycroft."  
"A thousand pardons, Doctor Hooper. Now, to what do I owe this pleasure."  
Firmly seated in the chair beside the slumped body of her friend, her lovely host's brother, she finished catching her breath.  
"Someone has been messing with Sherlock's body," she explained. "We didn't think it was safe to keep it there any longer."  
"We?"  
"Yes, Sherlock asked me to move his body because someone came in and was examining it early this morning. It made him uncomfortable. So, you and I need to make other arrangements." Mycroft considered for a moment, calling in Anthea and whispering with her. It didn't take long for different suited drones to walk in and collect the body. To Molly's surprise, without saying a word, Mycroft poured her a drink of a dark alcohol….a bourbon or whiskey. She wasn't sure of the difference, but took the straight-up drink without complaint.  
"My brother asked you to move his body." He spoke carefully, and she nodded affirmatively. "I should tell you, Detective Lestrade has been to see me to express concern for you."  
"For me?" Molly was baffled and a bit offended. She'd confided in Greg and couldn't help but be upset with this.  
"He didn't give me details…. I deduced more than he expressed." Realising her expression had been read, she allowed it to go stoney, in hopes it'd be harder to read her. "Explain to me, Doctor Hooper, exactly what has been going on." A huge sigh heaved itself from her lungs and she cast her eyes to the man who was invisible to all but her. Sherlock offered no comfort, leaning against the wall, staring at his shoes; he looked small to her…. in fact, he looked about twelve. Again, she was on her own.  
"Nothing, Mycroft…. nothing at all." Molly said, suddenly feeling maternal to the small boy that fussed in the corner, looking broken. "I -uh- I need to go just-just keep Sherlock until I can tend him." Without thinking about what the British Government may think, she took the little boy's hand firmly in hers and led him out into the streets of London. They could talk back at her flat.


	7. I Don't Know

Sherlock wriggled a bit, but held tight to her palm. Molly was a bit surprised it'd taken her so long to feel the chill in her hand. No weight, just a slight chill; as if she were holding snow in a numbing fingers. That was the closest thing to which Molly could compare the sensation, but if she were completely honest, it wasn't a good explanation.

"Did you know bees are like serial killers?" The tiny Sherlock blurted out, but Molly hadn't heard him, she was busy waving her hand for a taxi. "Well, I mean-"

"What, Sherlock?"

"Well- serial killers and bees exhibit similar behaviors." The young man swallowed and continued on, stuttering a bit all the way through. "In order to protect their hive from predators, bees gather pollen close enough to home, but far enough away that it's hard for predators to find it… the hive I mean, so…"

"Whats the point, Sherlock?" Molly couldn't help her curtness, she did feel a maternal pull when she look at him as a child, but it was hard for her to keep her patience with the day they'd had already had.

"I didn't really have any." He mumbled, climbing inside and sitting next her. "I was just talking- I thought it was interesting."

"Oh." She whispered, apologetically, before giving the taxi driver her address.

"I really like bees. They're very interesting."

"Well, you know what I like?" She continued to keep her voice down, leaning to hold her neck really close to his face.

"What?" He asked, excited, but cautious.

"I like elephants." The little boy inhaled excitedly.

"Elephants?!"

"Yes, absolutely, they're my favorite animal. So compassionate and smart."

With that, Sherlock began to ramble off facts at a high rate of speed. Most of which, Molly knew anyway. So, she could just smile and periodically hum an affirmative most of the ride.

Relief flooded over her as the taxi pulled over and she leaned up to pay.

"You smell really good."

"What?" Molly gasped, and twisted around to see a red faced twelve year old Sherlock frozen. Eyes wide, she could swear she heard his heart beat and it was very fast.

"I said nothing." The cabby hadn't realised who she was talking to, obviously, she apologised and as she climbed out of the car.

"I- I like your hair...It's very nice and smooth." Molly's face flushed a gentle pink; she could feel it. "A-and you're very nice… one of the nicest girls … well, women, I've ever met and when you work… you stick the tip of your tongue out and it's really cute." Her skin was heating up as she flipped through her key ring, rewarded for her efforts with an open door, she bent down to the little boy's level.

"Sherlock, would you like to watch a lecture with me?" She cast a suggestion into the dark, hoping for the best, after all, he was an odd child.

"Boy, would I!" Bullseye! She smiled and began to lead through the doorway. "Wait…. are you going to watch it with me, or do you just want me out of your hair?"

"Netflix just released new TED Talks, I've been dying to watch them. Besides," she knelt close to him again. "I find your company lovely. I always have." They exchanged smiles and he finally followed her into the room and positioned himself on her sofa.

"Molly…" "Yes?" Holding the remote felt strange in her hand after being chilled by Sherlock's for so long.

"Why does he have to be like that?" The little boy brought his knees up to his chest.

"Who? Your brother?" Molly continued clicking at the buttons. "Well, Sherlock, he doesn't have many friends and that makes people lonely and lonely people can be cranky."

"He's just so mean, it's not really fair. He treats me like I'm stupid." She'd turned her attention back to him, planting herself next to him on the couch. "You don't think I'm stupid, do you Molly?"

"Of course not, Sherlock!" She fought the urge to laugh, what a strange question coming from him. "You are smart and brave and big and strong, Sherlock. Your brother is just a cranky sour puss." The two exchanged smiles as Molly walked past to start popcorn and grab a drink for herself... a stiff one. The one Mycroft gave her was waning.

Feeling recharged, after a few moments, she returned to the living room with a huge smile on her face… only to drop it in a mixture of surprise and relief. Sherlock was staring at the tv as she left him, but he was an adult once again. Ears were a crimson color, though. Molly decided not to acknowledge what had happened, she would be embarrassed, too. So, there they sat, silent as the morgue she'd dragged his body from today until the TED talk was over.

"We should go back to the crime scene." Sherlock's low baritone hummed in her ear the second the show ended.

"What would that accomplish?" She asked, flipping the tv off.

"We just need to go." The man's ears had pinkened and he began to pace the length of her flat.

"No, Sherlock. Not until you explain to me what you think you'll see there and what the hell happened to you at Mycroft's office. Why did I bring a chatty little boy home, Sherlock?"

"I don't know." He replied, turning to face her, but still not making eye contact.

"Sherlock," Softly, she rose from the couch to stand toe to toe with him. "What aren't you telling me?" After an obvious attempt to avoid her eyes, he finally took a deep breath and spoke.

"That's the thing, Molly." She finally saw why he was hiding his eyes. "I don't know."

There it was.

For all the time she had know Sherlock Holmes, she could count on one hand the times she'd seen him like this; vulnerable. Right now, though, was different. She'd never seen this man stripped so bare. The being before her was Sherlock Holmes, but this was an inner part of him somehow…. like a peeled apple or potato, or the milk of a coconut.

Seeing him in this state, a deep feeling brushed her very core. For the first time since the first day at the morgue, the nausea hit her again. This was a Sherlock Holmes no one should see. This was a private part of Sherlock Holmes before her.

"Let me get my jumper." Her voice broke as she swallow down some stomach bile and bid her stomach stop gurgling. "I'm sure there's something we missed, Sherlock."

Normally, she was a good liar, even where Sherlock was concerned, there was no pretending this was her best, though. It had fallen flat despite the small amount of hope she had revisiting the alley would be any help at all. Who knew what was going on inside this Sherlock. Who knew if there was something wrong with her. No matter how this was going to end, giving up at this point was not an option. Molly Hooper was in for the long haul.


	8. Her Own Fall

The scene felt less haunted upon their return, at least to Molly, but she might have been used to that feeling by now. It was hard to brush the realization of what this Sherlock before her was, least of all because she just didn't have a word for it. It made her remember back when she was in uni, pouring over His Dark Materials and that looking at Sherlock, now, must be like looking at another person's daemon in that world, particularly the witches, given how far away they could go from their mate, but now she was getting distracted.

It really boggled her mind how good the Sherlock she used to know was at just turning off everything in his mind except what was needed. He had this way about him when he worked; a presence that overwhelmed most, infuriated many, but interested her. Now… now he was a sad, scared piece of man wandering around like an abandoned pet, scavenging for sustenance and much deprived of affection. He was obsessed with finding answers and Molly couldn't blame him, in fact, she supported it. After all, she was out here beneath a cloudy sky that threatened to give way to sheets of rain at any moment. Every droplet was a promise Mother Nature intended to keep.

"Sherlock, tell me how I can help you better." She whispered, nearly into his shoulder blade. The moment they reached the dead end he had stopped and froze, she was hoping, to survey the layout properly, but he hadn't said or done anything in several minutes.

Still mute, he finally moved and made his way to the dirty corner where he'd been found. Molly wasn't certain what he had seen, but he'd somehow found his way up to the landing he assumed he'd fallen from. Swallowing hard, she approached the ladder and fought to finally pull herself up. Taking several tries at launching herself, she finally got the ladder to move.

"I thought after the first two failures you might have given up." He mused.

"You know me better than that." She replied, catching her breath and holding on to the railing. "What are you looking at?" Her companion was still staring through the window, observing.

"The room. It's dark and I don't know if I can't see enough to remember it or if I really don't remember it." Carefully, he rubbed the back of his head again.

"Well, I might have a torch in my bag." After fumbling a moment with the magnetic latch on her pocket book, she retrieved her keys to reveal a myriad of ringed tools including a rape whistle, some red staining mace and finally, the flashlight. "Here, does this help?" It wasn't much, but what it did light up was enough for Sherlock.

"Actually,yes...I think so… I remember the fabric of that sofa." Again, he used this unreasonable power his form afforded him and appeared on the other side of the window. Not wanting to leave him and not wanting to argue, she lifted the window and began to crawl inside. "Careful!" He hissed. "There's been a fire in here and I can't tell if it was just the couch yet, so watch the floor." Casting her light downward, she could see where the rug had blackened and burnt away around the bottom of the couch and believed the distance she had gave her a safe enough vantage point. So, she stood, illuminating the floor for him and watching the light play as it reflected off the brass mirror behind it.

"So,... why would someone burn a sofa?" She finally asked, and he merely shrugged. "Well, do you want to share what you think you remember?"

"I don't know."

"Oh." A bit sad, she downcast her eyes and looked away.

"No, I mean I don't know what I think I remember." He corrected and she turned backed puzzled, but nodding. "I sat there." Sherlock pointed to the seat farthest from him and closest to Molly. "And I was speaking with someone about…" he sighed and shook his head, fighting his own mind. "... something."

"What else do you remember?"

"I felt… worried…. concerned… I was… like you said, I was trying to fix something for a friend."

"Like I said?" She crossed her free arm over her body and shifted her weight.

"Yes, remember, when we were with Lestrade and you said that someone I cared about in some way was in trouble." Molly was taken aback, she'd forgotten she'd ever said that and for him to tell her she was right about it knocked her a bit off pivot.

"Was it one of us that was in trouble?" She inquired further, stepping forward.

"No, no… but it was… it feels like… someone I knew needed help with saving someone...Drugs, Molly! Oh my gosh! It was drugs."

"Are you sure?"  
"Yes, someone told me they thought their child or younger sibling was hooked and blamed me and I had to fix it." Much to her amusement, he began jumping, laughing and dancing. "I did it, Molly! I wasn't sure I could, but I did."

"Well, not quite." She hadn't meant to, but it was like she'd smacked him again. Sherlock ceased his movement and looked back at her.

"You're right, I've no idea who it was, but I hadn't had many friends." Careful as she could, Molly crept even closer to the couch, trying to keep up with Sherlock's mumblings and flailings had distracted her though and she heard the crunch of the floor far too late.

"Ok, so, here's what we know, Molly." Sherlock was incessant and excited. "Someone I care for was blaming me for getting someone else addicted. So…" With great ease in the blank room, he pulled out a chalk board. "The people I care about…. There's John, you, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson…." His hands flew over the board with ease, leaving behind his scribbles and Molly to mostly make educated guesses at what she was reading. "...I can't think of anyone else…"

"No one, Sherlock?"

"No, I really can't." She felt herself pass him a puzzled look and he shrank a bit.

"You had no friends in uni, Sherlock?" It was hard for her to imagine Sherlock with many friends, but she couldn't imagine him without friends. Frankly, Molly didn't want to. He was a much better person with friends.

"I don't like to share this." He returned the funny face with an insecure, uncharacteristic look. "But, I… was with someone during uni and it didn't end well, so I much prefer to not mention it."

"What was her name?"

"Victor."

"Oh…. I see."

"Victor Trevor…. he had a younger brother, a sister and a cousin… I'm not remembering any of their faces."

"Well, when you're back in your body, this'll pan out better, I'm sure."

"But, how do we intend to get me there." Molly took a sharp inhale, preparing to respond, but it wasn't to be.

"Doctor Hooper?" A clear, unfamiliar voice spoke to her as a light burned at her retinas.

"Bloody hell." Reflexively, her arm lifted up, smacking who she hoped was the bloke attempting to blind her. If she had hit him, it hadn't been hard; he barely released a grunt.

"Can you tell me the year, Doctor Hooper?"

"2014?"

"Thats right. Can you name the Prime Minister?"

"Damnit, I'm fine! Now, leave me be. I need to talk to Sherlock."

"Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes." Slowly, she opened her eyes to see a stout, bird like man furiously moving pen on paper.

"And how long have you been talking to Sherlock?" He asked, moving the tip of his pen to his mouth and biting down.

"Years." The mattress was a bit bumpy for her liking, she thought, as she sat up and righted herself.

"So, you've spoken since he got shot?" Her antennae finally flipped up as her wits came to her.

"No, god, no…. It was… it was a dream…" The response he gave her was one of disappointment. His face fell and he replaced his pen into the pocket protector at his breast. "Sorry."

"No, no...you seem fine,though. I'll be back to check on you again and ask you some more questions." The squeak of his chair releasing all the weight it'd held up made her flinch.

"May I have some coffee?" He nodded, informing her he'd send in someone with a hot cup soon and she relaxed to stare up at the ceiling. Distraught she'd had such a big answer in her head disappear because the doctor had to wake her. The numbing tingling reverberated through her as she accepted her coffee, moments later, as she wondered where Sherlock went when she had woken up.


	9. Can't Stay Here

Again, with no real warning, Sherlock Holmes pushed himself into the room and, while Molly was still nursing a headache, she couldn't help but feel both relieved and concerned about his reappearance.

"Where are your clothes?" He demanded passing her a confused look as she pulled at the collar of her medical gown.

"I'm in hospital, Sherlock. I did a bit more than just hit my head." She was very conscious of keeping her voice down. "I have to be very careful about talking to you in here or they'll send me to psych."

"Not if you leave." The edges of her eyes burned as she stretched them to their limit.

"Are you mad? I fell through a floor." She insisted, careful not to shake her head and relaxing her eyes again.

"It was only one story, Molly, couldn't have done too much damage."

"Sherlock, I'm not leaving and I'm not going to gab with you, so you're going to have to sit and wait." She'd broken up with lesser men for pouting, but Sherlock pouting only made her smile. Keeping her face as stern as she could, she still pressed. "I mean it, William." His face twitched in recoil at her teasing and he relented, sitting across the room and proceeding to fidget and complain. For hours, he persisted, and Molly merely ignored him. Her headache gone, she sipped her water when her coffee was gone and read the paper.

Much like a puppy, he followed her to her tests and dedicated to informing her how worthless her radiologist was and telling her the life story of the assistant and nurse who took her to her MRI. Just for fun, she inquired about whether or not she'd need an EEG on her way to her CT scan and reveled as he kicked off.

Sherlock desperately needed to learn patience and she had no qualms about teaching it to him as she was. After her last test, though, she turned to him as he stood complaining and whispered.

"I need my shoes on." Finger pressed to her lips, his signal that she'd not respond further for the time being, she reached behind her bed to find her bag of clothing where the hospital staff usually put it. To Sherlock's dismay, he questioned why she was shoving the socks in the purse she'd just retrieved from the plastic bag. "I love these socks!" She replied, decided she should also pull on her trousers, as she laced up her trainers, Molly glanced back up at Sherlock and exchanged a mischievous smile with him. "Now, how did you get out of here last time?"

"Why would she have run off?" John Watson asked Greg Lestrade in the hospital waiting room. "I mean, where would she even go?"

"I checked her flat, no sign of her there." The detective shook his head and plopped onto the chair.

"I don't even know where to look." He said, sitting down across from Greg, who was worrying at his lip. "What?" Lestrade made eye contact, but continued to keep his mouth closed by force. "For god sakes, Greg, what?"

"How many of Sherlock's boltholes did she know about?"

"Sherlock… why?" He thought a moment. "You don't think…."

"She told me she was seeing him, I wouldn't be surprised if she'd go off to hide like he did."

"Molly said she could see Sherlock?"

"Yes, she said that she could see him like he was still there."

"So, alright. Let's get going." They rose to their feet, content on making a plan. "I really thought this was over when he -"

"I know." He offered his friend comfort as they made their way out to the parking lot. "Well, I guess we should make a phone call." John sighed.

She was grateful she'd decided to pull on her trousers and that she'd been wearing trainers. The rain that had started while she was in the alley had either come back or was still going strong. Molly wasn't sure which as she gripped at her gown, struggling to stay warm.

"I need a jacket." Made its way from her lips which, she thought, must be turning blue. "We're stopping."

"No!" He insisted, stopping and turning to her with panic painted across his face. "They'll go looking for you at your flat."

"Then what do you suggest?" Her teeth chattered as she pressed on.

"Well,... stop by Baker Street."

"Baker Street?" The chill made the road seem longer. If her fingers came through the gowns fabric, she wouldn't know.

"Yes. You do still have the key, right? Have your pick of the lot. Fat chance Mrs. Hudson has gotten to it and John's probably avoiding it like the plague again." From behind him, she thought for a moment, before cautiously relenting.

"Alright." She sighed, waving down a taxi and giving the address.

When Mycroft's phone rang that afternoon and he read the caller id, he knew instantly it was about Molly Hooper. Since his brother's accident and apparent death, Molly Hooper had quickly replaced Sherlock as a thorn in his side he could never quite pluck from his skin. It should have been easy for him, considering she was not his sibling, but he felt immediately protective of her both times his brother had been…. unavailable for an extended period of time.

Perhaps it'd been everything he deduced about his brother when Sherlock signed her on to aid him in his fall… maybe they'd just managed to grow close while Sherlock was away. No matter the reason, there was a definitive pull there he couldn't rationalize.

So he wasn't surprised to hear John Watson's voice on the line informing him that Molly Hooper was on the move.

Nervously, Molly slipped the key in the lock. If it hadn't been attached to the chain she used regularly, it would have certainly had dust on it, as it was though, it'd been recently dropped in a puddle and rinsed by the rain.

"Should I worry?" She asked.

"About what?" To her surprise, Sherlock had been fairly quiet on the way there, so, even though she had spoke to him, hearing his voice had startled her a bit.

"Mrs. Hudson."

"Mrs. Hudson won't be a bother."

"Mrs. Hudson clobbered you with a skillet when you came back." His face twisted at her argument, really he just wanted this to be a quick in and out, but they'd have to be prepared for the worst.

"Just… work as fast and silently as you can. It should be fine." Sherlock didn't make eye contact and Molly responded with raised eyebrows, but soon returned to the key in the door and made her entrance as carefully as possible.


	10. 221B

As he silently cursed his brother, Mycroft welcomed Sherlock's long time friends into his office. Legwork was never his thing and he wasn't relenting for Molly; Sherlock was lucky he'd made the exception at the end of the long holiday, as he'd taken to calling it.

"So, where have you checked?" Mycroft asked, calmly, returning to his desk and work; he could focus on both.

"Well, we checked her flat and the morgue." Lestrade started.

"And we went to Lorentson Gardens, Camden Lock, the leaning tomb" Watson continued.

"Kew Gardens, Parliament Hill." Looking a bit ragged, the DI was obviously worried about Molly. It was one thing for Sherlock to run off, but it was totally out of character for Molly.

"And Baker Street?" As he spoke, Mycroft finally made some eye contact, it was far easier to read people that way, though it wasn't necessary.

"Baker Street?" The doctor shook his head, ripe with confusion.

"Of course." The elder Holmes pressed. "If she's under the delusion that Sherlock is still wandering about, it would give reason to her investigating or visiting the residence he held when he was alive." The two men looked at each other, astonished and ashamed they hadn't thought of it themselves. "If she's not there," He sighed, returning to his work. "you might check the crime scene and his childhood home."

"She might have gone to your parents house?" Seeing Lestrade deepen his hands into his coat pocket, Mycroft could only assume Greg was fondling a cigarette case.

"Possibly, but a visit to Baker Street is more likely. Don't waste your time bothering with them before checking the flat and where Sherlock died, I'm merely suggesting that she might see it as an option." Another heavy sigh and he waved them away, there were far more pressing matters going on in the world than a heartbroken pathologist disappearing in London.

"For someone who use to make fun of John's jumpers, you have quite the little collection yourself." Molly Hooper giggled, putting a novelty Christmas cardigan against her chest and pressing the button she found in the cuff. "Oh, good god, it lights up AND plays "Jingle Bells'!"

"A cousin got that for me as a joke." An annoyed and embarrassed Sherlock squirmed on his bed. "Put it back. Or better yet, pitch it in the bin."

"Oh, no. I'm burying you in this, Sherlock Holmes."

"You're not funny." He snarled.

"Oh, you think I'm joking? After the trouble I'm going through for you, I'll do as I please." Smiling, smugly, she draped the sweater over her arm, self satisfied.

"You wouldn't dare."

"Oh, I wouldn't dare, would I? Are you sure?" She challenged, holding the cardigan in front of him. "You're forgetting, no one else can hear you, mate, and who wouldn't believe me?"

"John, for one, he never saw that jumper, anyway."

"And you think he'd hesitate to support me, even if he knew it was a lie?" Molly wasn't about to back down, it was rare she ever had him this good and she enjoyed it.

"Stop playing around and put that away." He hissed.

"Maybe I should wear it." A devious smile slid over her face.

"Fine." Sherlock tried to shrug it off, crossing his arms and turning his back. "Do what you want, I don't care, just do it quickly." Before Molly could reply, they heard footsteps on the stairs and their expressions changed to full panic.

"I got this." She mouthed, and Sherlock nodded as Molly quietly closed the closet door.

"Molly?" Greg Lestrade shouted down the alley, wondering if he would regret it. Given how unlike herself Molly was acting in the first place, it was hard to determine whether or not she'd run and hide at the sound of his voice. "I don't see her yet, John." He shrugged in the direction of the doctor, who had just gotten out of a cab.

"Well, there are a lot of places to hide here." Watson sighed, surveying the scene. "Not sure where we should look first… I hope she's not hurt again."

"Yeah, where'd they find her last time?" Greg asked, turning on a flashlight and approaching the building that created the dead end.

"Bottom floor there. I guess a member of Sherlock's homeless network found her, it was one of his phones." He explained, catching up to Lestrade and looking through the windows with him. "What was she trying to find?"

"Well, if she thinks she sees Sherlock, maybe he wants to solve his murder." It was all Lestrade had to offer.

"Yeah, but wouldn't he know how he died? Why wouldn't he just tell her?" The detective chuckled. "What?"

"Didn't he drug you and lock you in a lab for an experiment?" With a grumble, John relented.

"I suppose you're right." Climbed through the open window, he stepped back to give Greg room to join him with the torch. They wandered around for good half hour, before John finally threw up his hands. "So, what are we going to do once we find her?"

"Well, take her back to the hospital, of course." Lestrade answered, flatly, pushing the door in the back of the room.

"No, I know that… I meant… about the Sherlock problem." At this point, Greg stopped and met John's eyes with a heavy look.

"Whatever we have to, mate."

Sherlock wasn't sure what to do to help Molly as Mrs. Hudson crept in on tiptoes, brandishing what appeared to be the same pot she'd smack him with when he returned last year. To his surprise and amusement, though, Molly impressed him. From behind the door, the sounds of tears and mournful cries bought both of their attention.

"Hello?" Mrs. Hudson called, quietly and softly, as she crept up to the door and slowly opened it. "Molly?"

"Oh.. oh, Mrs. Hudson!" Molly bawled, leaping into her arms. "I just- miss- him- so much!"

"There, there now, deary, it's alright." The kindly old woman comforted her. "He wouldn't want you to be like this, love. Fretting over him in such a state." She pulled back and brushed tears away from Molly's eyes.

"I know, I know. Its not like he loved me anyway." She squealed, wistfully.

"Oh, dear, of course Sherlock loved you!" Mrs. Hudson insisted.

"Really?!" Totally into the part, she placed her head on Mrs. Hudson shoulder.

"Well- in his own way. He was a bit odd, you know, but that doesn't mean he cared for you any less." Molly nodded.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." She sniffled. "Do you think.. do you think I could take these jumpers? He so loved this one." Sherlock gaped and grumbled at the site of the novelty sweater in her arms. After giving her a questioning look, though, Mrs. Hudson insisted it was fine, gave Molly a parting hug and told her to take her time.

"It'll be alright, lovey." Comforting, Mrs. Hudson smiled back at her from the doorway before turning and making her way back down the stairs.

"Impressive." Muttered the detective, a bit irritated at the cardigan teasing.

"Let it go, Sherlock." Molly waved his sour-puss expression away as she continued flipping through the closet. "I'm taking this one." Decisively, she held up a wool blazer and he nodded his permission.

"We need to hurry, now, though. You've been seen, they'll be here soon. I'm sure of it." This new Sherlock, Molly decided, had anxiety issues, but at least his feelings were more obvious than the Sherlock she'd known before. So, she saw it as a trade off. Whether it was for better or worse was yet to be seen, but Sherlock was still Sherlock no matter what.

"Back to the scene?" She asked, as she pulled on the jacket and jerry rigged a random belt through the button holes to hold it closed.

"Yes… No… Well, yes, but I think I know what happened, so, we'll double check at the scene and then go find Lestrade."

"Bet you a tenner he's looking for me."

"Mmmm…. here's hoping we find him first. Come on, now." With his long, elegant fingers, he beckoned her out of the closet.

"I'm still going to bury you in that jumper."

"If you do I'll…"

"What? Haunt me." She smirked, walking past him to the stairway.

Cheerily, Mrs. Hudson picked up her landline as it began to chime the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Yes, , its John."

"Why, hello, John. How are you, dear?" She asked, setting down on her favorite chair.

"I'm fine, but, … uh, Lestrade and I are looking for Molly. Have you seen her?"

"Molly?" A bit confused, but happy to help. "Why, she was just here."

"She was?"  
"Yes. 'fraid she must of popped out now. Oh, she was just in tears, the poor girl. I found her crying in Sherlock's cupboard, the dear. You know, I think she needs some help. You should probably check in on her, John."

"Yeah." The doctor sighed, hiding any sign of his irritation. "Well, do you know where she went?"  
"Oh, well, I'd guess back home. I suspect we won't be seeing much more of her for a while. Its just so sad. She'll get through it, though, she's tough."

"That she is, Mrs. Hudson. That she is." Another ragged sigh. "Well, I need to go now-"

"Oh, John, will you and Mary be coming round soon for tea? I haven't seen you in days."

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. We'll- we'll stop round soon, but I have to go now."

"Alright, dear, I just know it's easy to forget me over here… all alone."

"Yes, we'll come round later this week, Mrs. Hudson. But, I have to go now." He insisted.

"Alright, love, I'll see you Thursday."

"I- Fine, right, Mrs. Hudson. We'll pop by Thursday for tea. Good bye."

"Bye, John." Mrs. Hudson smiled, self satisfied, before replacing the receiver.

"Well?" Greg asked as an obviously annoyed John Watson hung up the phone.

"Well, she showed up at Baker Street, just like Mycroft said." He leaned back in the car seat and rubbed his temples.

"So, is that where we're headed?" The doctor replied a negative.

"No, Mrs. Hudson said she's run off again. Apparently, she was having a fit in Sherlock's cupboard."

"I hope thats a good sign." With a grumble, the D.I. changed gears. "Where do we look for her now?"

"We can check her flat again, but I gotta get an aspirin first." With a chuckle he drove in direction of the chemists while they sat in frustrated silence.


	11. Old and New Sherlock

"You know, Sherlock," Molly Hooper shouted, into the wind and above the sound of rain slamming onto the pavement. "I really don't think this is the best night to do this… maybe we should go home and regroup."  
"Who's home?" Sherlock's words were nearly eaten by a huge gust. "There's really nowhere they won't look for you right now and I just need to check something."  
"What are you checking, exactly? Couldn't we at least go inside?" She asked.  
"Of course not, that's how you got caught last time." The detective insisted. "Do you want to get hurt again? It wasn't easy for us to get help last time."  
"What?" Had she heard him right?  
"Nothing. We're not going up the fire escape. We already know they'll be checking here, we just have to hope they've stopped looking for you through the storm." She let him ignore the question for now, but she made note to herself to ask him about that later. Why it hadn't occurred to her to ask how she was found before was beyond her at this point. Perhaps the answer would make her feel less crazy. While that question hadn't come to her when she was in hospital, she was coming to the realization that she hadn't questioned her own sanity in a while, and that scared her. After all, what separates the insane from the sane is that the crazy often don't know they're crazy. Molly found herself wondering if that thought might be her tether to the real world or if she was actually living in reality. As she watched him muck around, she positioned herself under under the shelter of a window awning and she thought about how fact is normally stranger than fiction. After all, she'd be remiss not to also note that some of the craziest things she'd seen had been with Sherlock.  
"What are you looking for?" She shouted after him.  
"I'm just making sure I'm right, I'll know it when I see it."  
"Sherlock, this is mad! There has to be a better place where we can hide." Molly immediately regretted opening her mouth when she heard a familiar voice, that wasn't Sherlock's call her name.  
"Molly?! Oh my god!" Greg Lestrade ran up to her, flushed and soaked through by the rain. "What do you think you're doing? You're going to get yourself killed."  
"You have to tell him, Molly." Bombarded by the two boys, she found it hard to get her thoughts together.  
"Tell him what?" Again, another regret. Why was she even talking at this point?  
"Who are you talking to?" Seeing the panic on her face, Lestrade swore, rubbed his hands through his hair and paced in a circle. "You're still seeing him." When she showed no signs of responding, he continued. "Do you still see Sherlock? Is he why you're out here? Is he why you ran out of hospital and have been all over this city when you should be resting?" Again, he repeated his litany. "Is he why you came out here in the first place and got yourself hurt? Molly, answer me!"  
"Yes, alright. Yes to every single one of your questions."  
"You've gone mad, Molly. You need help." Lestrade threw his hands up in overwhelming exacerbation . "Please, please, Molly." He pressed his hands together. "Let me get you help."  
"She doesn't need help." Sherlock shouted before catching himself and turning to Molly. "Tell him you don't need help. Tell him you're ok." He insisted, but she fluttered her arms up and down, motioning to herself.  
"Are you sure of that, Sherlock?" She asked. "How sure are you of your own existence?"  
He said nothing at first, only watched her, staring into her eyes, desperate, tired, soaked through to the bone and, though it was hard to tell in this weather, crying.  
"Molly," from beyond her, Greg spoke up again, as the storm began to calm. "just come with me and it'll be alright. I promise you." Sherlock watched Greg take the distraught Molly's hand, urging her to walk away from him and to the DI.  
"Please, Molly." As Greg gave her pull, she didn't fight and Sherlock flew into a panic and blurted out his theory. "It was a man named Darren Blake."  
"What?" She was finally intrigued, so he proceeded to lay it out.  
"He was studying the same course a uni with me, we were just acquaintances but I sold to his younger brother, Dane and Dane recently died of an overdose."  
"Then why were you…"  
"In the lab? Probably making sure it was an overdose. I remember Darren asking me to make sure that's what it was, and when I confirmed it, he probably asked to meet here."  
"Ok, so,... Darren…"  
"Yes, Darren… Darren Blake shot me. Tell Lestrade to arrest him." Sherlock insisted.  
"Sherlock says Darren Blake killed him." Reluctantly, she turned to Greg, to gage his reaction. Greg merely shook his head.  
"No, he didn't. Molly, Sherlock isn't there. He's not there, he's not telling you what happened to him…." Once again, for the fifth or sixth time that night, he ran his hands through his hair and paced in the circle. "Molly, I'm going to do for you what I did for Sherlock when I first met him… when you're ready to accept my help; ready to admit you have a problem and there's something wrong… I'll be here and I will move heaven and earth to help you to get right, but I can't help you if you won't help yourself." As he turned to leave, Molly suddenly became defiant, chasing him down the alley.  
"Wait, now, are you saying that you're so convinced I've gone mad that you won't even look into the possibility of it being Darren Blake?" The pounding of her heart in her chest seemed to rival the thunder that shook the ground beneath her and as Greg climbed into the car, she pushed her head into the driver's window, meeting him nose to nose. "Is this what you did to Sherlock at first? Were you so convinced that a boy that age; a drug addict that was melting away into a skeleton, couldn't possibly be able to read a murder scene like that?" There was no reply or eye contact, so she pushed. "Well, were you?"  
"No!" He shouted as he finally met her gaze. "No, but I insisted he sober up first." Greg shouted, waving his finger in her face.  
"That's fine. Dismiss me, too. Dismiss me like you did him because no one at all would have supported you letting a druggy on a scene… because it wasn't proper. Dismiss me because no one would believe you if you told them you got a lead from a pathologist who talks to a dead consulting detective." Greg didn't give a reply, just passed her a barren look as he pulled away.  
"Thank you, Molly." Sherlock said. "Now, we -"  
"And you!" She turned around, still riding high on the emotions flowing through her. "I know for a fact that you were guessing right there and if you ever make me sound any more mad than I already do in front of people, I will make you regret it. No, I'm not sure how, but give me the fuel and I'll start the fire." Recognizing he shouldn't speak, he only nodded his understanding before turning around and continuing to rummage through the scene; never letting her in on his thoughts.

After watching him pick around the scene for a time, she insisted to be taken out of the rain. Of course, still being paranoid and insistent, he ushered her to a new hiding spot, but if she were being honest, she didn't want to go home tonight, anyway.  
"You're right." He whispered as they lay in the darkness of a mausoleum. "I didn't know for sure if it was Darren. In fact, I doubt it's Darren, but I needed to give you an answer to give him."  
"Sherlock?" The detective hummed a response. "Let me sleep. It's bad enough you drug me into someone's tomb, but to deprive me of sleep is simply cruel. Now, find a way to rest yourself. Meditate or something."  
"I don't think meditating will help right now." With a sigh, she pulled the jacket tighter around her.  
"Than just be quiet. I'm of no use to you tired." Molly fidgeted again, why she had allowed Sherlock to convince her to break into a graveyard and someone's resting place was beyond her, but she'd been running on adrenaline. Especially considering that his very existence suggested that the simple act of opening the mausoleum was asking for trouble. But, it was nice to be out of the wind and rain and, frankly, she found it warmer than her other options, plus the darkness would aid to her sleep even if her stony bed didn't. Today had been emotionally exhausting and all she wanted at that moment was her life back.  
Molly wanted her own bed and her normal (to her anyway) job with her friends and dates and kisses… with nights with her cat, Toby, and streaming movies in fuzzy socks and pajama pants. She wanted to paint her toenails, but only manicure her fingernails because of her job. But, most of all, she wanted her Sherlock back. The Sherlock that she had only just started flirting back with, the Sherlock whom, she felt, she was really just starting to know. Who was finally opening up to her and he was gone, probably forever, and there was nothing she could do about it. All she was left with was this new Sherlock that no one else could see. Her best friends thought she'd gone mad and had her cut her off from them. And there she was, seeking shelter in someone's mausoleum from a storm with a presumed ghost as her only companion.  
Stifling her tears, as she finally drifted off to sleep, she wondered what to make of the fact that this new Sherlock had managed to isolate her and the Sherlock she used to know would never do that.


	12. A Single, Small Cut

After a night sleeping on smooth stone, Molly had decided that it was her last. Her entire body was achy and stiff from the rough sleep she'd had. For all his deductive abilities in life, Sherlock certainly lacked them in death or chose not to use them.

"Ready to stop by the alley again, today?" He asked the moment he saw her eyes softly flutter open.

"Ugh. Down, boy." Molly grunted, squeezing her eyes tight again as she sat up and stretched. "I let you call the shots all day, yesterday, Sherlock, but now I'm going to go home." Molly calmly explained, rising to her feet and gather her things.

"Home? Why?!"

"Because, Sherlock, I smell like a cemetery, my hair is decorated with fallen foliage, I'm fairly certain there were spiders in my trousers last night and I'm famished…. We're going back to my flat." Before she tossed her bag over her shoulders, she fished out her oyster card. "Honestly, I only stayed here last night because it's closer than my flat, with the downpour and all, and I didn't want to risk being cornered again so soon."

"What do you mean 'cornered again'?" Sherlock asked, as Molly stepped out into the sunlight and recoiled at its brightness and warmth.

"That conversation I had with Greg." The pathologist explained. "I never want to have another like that with anyone again." Her expression was serious and pained. "That was awful, Sherlock, and it hurt." Again, she left him without words, he could only nod. Never before, in his adult life, could he remember feeling this much at someone else's mercy. And if he had, it certainly didn't feel like this. He wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to properly verbalize how she made him feel, especially now; after the falls he'd suffered. Sherlock never felt this vulnerable but, after all, he'd been stripped of his skin and bones; left as this weird mass only Molly could see and neither of them knew why.

Of course, she was tortured by this, but she had a choice and he had to respect that because he had none. The one person that mattered the most to him in all this world was now his only tether to it and he couldn't risk her cutting the cord. Sherlock was a man so used to being heavy handed, yet now he had to tiptoe through existence. Not only that, but along with the loss of his body, he'd lost something else; he was the very embodiment of all his emotions now and had lost the ability to swallow them down.

As a result, he quietly followed her home, which was a feat; he detested the tube.

Molly washed away the night before and replaced it with the scent of her coconut and vanilla body wash. It took several washes at several temperatures of water but she finally washed the odours from her skin and her hair.

But, she wasn't sad anymore. This wasn't about washing away the pain and frustration of the past day, it was about becoming herself again. She was going to help the Sherlock she knew now, of course, but during the past two days, she'd given him her whole life and she wasn't going to do that anymore.

"You know," Molly spoke with the knowledge Sherlock was in hearing range. "We can't go back to Scotland Yard until we know for sure what happened and have proof." In the mirror, she could see him nod at this as she got out her blow dryer.

"I just feel like I'm on the right track." He explained and she paused. Sherlock always chose logic over gut, so, while he might have used that phrase before, combined with this new Sherlock's behavior, it definitely forced her to look him in the eyes again. Molly had done this only a few times since she started realizing what he must be and, now, she was doing it again. It was almost painful and undeniably unsettling. As she stood there, gazing in his eyes through the mirror in nothing but a bath towel she could feel him approach her and when he was at her shoulders staring back into her eyes as if they were magnets, he leaned close to her ear. "Do I scare you, Molly?" The breath that came from him was unusually cold against her wet shoulder. "I can hear your heart beating faster and I can see it in your eyes. You don't like to look at me, do you, Molly?" He asked in his deep, gravelly baritone and she shook her head no.

"You're not you, Sherlock." Stoic, her voice gently cracked as she said his name.

"Yes, I am, Molly. I am me, I am Sherlock." She let out a shriek as his voice cracked her mirror and sent a few small shard flying. As silence fell between them, they exchanged looks of shock and fear, before he turned and left.

Leaving her there, just as broken as the mirror.

Once Molly had cleaned up the glass, and finished putting herself together, she stepped out into the living room where Sherlock was pacing.

"We don't need to go back." He explained.

"Sherlock…"

"I am getting my memories back on their own, it's like my mind is healing."

"Sherlock…"

"And I am so close, I can see the man's face. I know what my killer looks like, Molly. Don't you see how great this is?" He turned to look at her, finally and his entire face dropped. "What?"

"You showed me you were real, Sherlock, by hurting me." Slowly, she raised her finger to show a single, small cut in the middle of her ring finger.

"What? That? That's nothing, it'll heal." He attempted to play it off.

"No, Sherlock. I know you are real now because you hurt me. You didn't mean to, but you were upset, you scared me, and " she held the finger closer to his face, "you hurt me."

"What do you want me to say,Molly?" He whispered.

"What do I want you to say?!" Withdrawing her finger, she grabbed her temples. "I need you to understand that I don't know if I can trust you anymore. Should I trust you?"

"Yes, of course, I -"

"Can you even trust yourself, Sherlock?" She cut him off. "Really, truly, I think you scared yourself, too. I don't think you trust yourself and, if you can't trust yourself… how can you expect me to?" Sherlock stared at his feet, ashamed. "Listen, I just checked my calendar. I have a dinner date tonight, so I'll be going to that. You had me nearly all day yesterday; I'm taking today off. Oh, and stay off of my computer, it hasn't been the same since you hopped in it to check out my last date."

Of course, he didn't argue. He couldn't bring himself to. She was completely right. The only thing he wished he could do was tell her all the things that were floating around in his head, but she didn't need that now. So, he just watched her walk away to make a cup of tea.

After a day of watching her watch television and movies, he moved on to watching her prepare for her date. Observing her rituals and how she used eeni meeni miini moh to pick between two pairs of white gold earrings to go with her black halter dress with white pinstripes. He wanted to tell her how lovely she looked, but he didn't. He wanted to tell her that her date's name was Dave, because she kept forgetting it, but he didn't. He wanted to suggest she get the fish at that particular restaurant, but he didn't.

He didn't because he couldn't. Sherlock's mouth felt fused closed by his own guilt and desire to see her happy. It remained that way. Snapped shut like a bear trap, until a face in the crowd bought his attention and pulled him away from Molly and Dave's boring conversation about some random television show he'd never seen. This face was almost calling to him.

The man was sitting with his family. He assumed the woman was his wife and beside them sat their two young sons and older daughter. That face was a face he knew. The face he tried to describe to Molly. Carefully, eyes still fixed on the man, he leaned over to Molly's shoulder.

"Molly, I'm very sorry, but we're going to have to excuse ourselves." He explained.

"Why?" She managed to whisper.

"Because my killer is enjoying a steak and I think you should ask him about it."


	13. The Truth

Sherlock was desperate enough to get on his knees and beg Molly to talk the man if he had to, but was hoping it wouldn't have to come to that. Just because only Molly could see him didn't mean he had no pride left, but he begged her with his eyes, hoping her peripheral vision of his pleading would be enough.  
"Look, he's leaving." He watched Molly carefully flick her eyes over to the man's table. He was obviously paying the bill, but leaving ahead of his family. "Why aren't they leaving as a unit? Come on, this must be driving you mad, because I recognize him!"  
"Excuse me," Molly dismissed herself from the table. "I need the loo." Keeping her face even and cheery, she was relieved to find that it was a private bathroom, so she wouldn't have to worry about people walking in and catching her talking to what they would perceive as only air. "How sure are you this time, Sherlock?"  
"Pretty sure." Hands on her hips, Molly rolled her eyes and scoffed. "I'm nearly completely sure." Observing that he was losing her, he fought harder. "Listen, I have been on my best behavior all night and I haven't even mentioned that your date is married."  
"Separated."  
"No, still married and divorced three previous times."  
"You're lying."  
"I'm guessing." He shrugged and wrinkled his face. "Just a rough estimate I'm not as good at deductions as I was before but I'm getting better. My memories are getting clearer;improving as well and I'm asking you…" Another scoff and the stomp of her foot this time. "Begging you, Molly, please. If you ever trusted me, please, trust me now because I know I saw that man that night and even if he's not my -" They both froze. She must have seen the pain in his face, after all, he didn't have the emotional control he once did. "- even if he didn't… hurt me, Molly, he was there. He knows something." With that, Molly gave a reluctant nod.  
"Ok. Ok…. just let me bow out gracefully." She sighed, deeply. "Besides, my bag's at the table." Even if she wanted to, there was no where for Molly to hide how frustrated she was with the situation but, what could she do. Just like the old Sherlock, the new one knew how to pull her heartstrings and make her feel like his violin. Sometimes, she felt so weak, but she as she approached the table, she swallowed these emotions; binding those insecurities together and containing them in her gut. "I'm so very sorry, but something has come up and I have to go." The man was stupid, but she respected him enough to make sure her face was guilt ridden and sorrowful. "Thank you for dinner." Of course, the man got up and approached her, throwing his arms around her.  
"No problem, maybe we can do this again sometime." Molly couldn't help but be creeped out by how tight he was holding her and the way he was breathing into her ear.  
"Thanks, again. Email me, ok?" Free of his grasp, she pushed away and quickly trotted out into the busy street. "Now, where is the bloke I'm to follow?" She asked aloud and was relieved when Sherlock answered her.  
"He's still walking, just there." He pointed, brazen as ever, but thankfully unseen and heard by the rest of the world, across the street. Molly managed to catch sight of him before he ducked into an alley and quickly went after him.  
"What's his name? Do you know?" She asked, in a whisper.  
"No… I'm sorry."  
"Of course you don't remember. Should I call after him? I'm wearing heels?"  
"No, and you might want to pop those off because I think he saw you and is about to run." Sherlock informed her as they entered the alley, a mere 20 or 30 feet behind him.  
"Oh, come on!" Lifting up her feet, almost seamlessly, she groaned as she ripped her shoes off and began sprinting after him. Barely managing to get the heels into her glittering, purple cross-over purse, she was relieved when she realized they were coming up on a dead end.  
"Don't hurt me, please!" The man started crying, leaning the bricks and shouting into the night. "Help! Help!"  
"No, shhhshshshsh!" Molly hushed him. "I'm not gonna hurt you, just please…" The man kept screaming and he was quivering in fear. Sternly, she grabbed his shoulders and look him directly in the eyes. "I swear to god, I mean you no harm, but if you don't shut up, I'll shove my shoes so far down your throat, you'll have some explaining to do to your wife, do you understand me?" Obviously, still frightened, he was quieted by her threat. "Now, I just want to ask you about Sherlock." A sudden realization swept over the man's face.  
"Marcus didn't send you?" The man asked.  
"I don't think I even know a Marcus." Finally relaxed, now, Molly leaned back, out of his face, to stand up straight and placed her hands on her hips. You'd think the man would note her little black dress and stocking feet as a sign she wasn't sent to off him, but Molly assumed assassins must sometimes kill in cocktail dresses.  
"Oh." She was glad he seemed relieved enough to finally start breathing, so she stepped closer to him and squatted down to his level.  
"What's your name?"  
"Lance."  
"Lance? Ok, Lance."She worried at her lower lip a moment. "I have some questions I'd like to ask you."  
"Are you the police?"  
"Tell him yes." Sherlock interjected, but Molly ignored him.  
"Sort of. I just want to know what happened to my boyfriend." With all she could, she mustered a single tear. "Sorry." She replied, softly as she exhaled.  
"No, no,... it's ok." Lance leaned forward, adjusting himself to be more comfortable. "Do you mind?" He asked, pulling out his cigarettes. She shook her head 'no' and also turned down his offer of one. "So, what do you want to know?"  
"What happened that night? Why did my Sherlock have to die?" Her tear was real this time, but Sherlock didn't need to know that. Lance took a ragged breath.  
"You deserve better, you know." The tired man tried to comfort her.  
"I know, but… he was mine." Lance nodded at this.  
"Ok, well, where would you like me to start?"  
"The beginning."

It took Lance a long while to start; he was obviously affected by the whole situation.  
"Well… uh… a couple years ago, I was …" He paused to wipe some sweat from his brow and slow his breathing. "...I...I did something… bad."  
"That's subjective." Sherlock grumbled. "What kind of 'bad'?"  
"What do you mean by 'bad', Lance?" Molly translated, softening Sherlock's message with her gentlier disposition.  
"I was cheating on my wife…"  
"Mmm… fairly standard… boring." It was really easy for Molly to ignore Sherlock's narrations by this time.  
"With her sister"  
"Bit more interesting."  
"And… and I killed her."  
"Still a bit mundane, but fairly more interesting than originally thought." Sherlock continued.  
"See… it was an accident…. but… he found out."  
"Who found out, Lance?" Molly rocked back on her heels; her feet were growing numb.  
"Sherlock was going to tell my wife." The poor man's voice was starting to crack as he collapsed as he succumbed to his emotions; crying. "She couldn't know, I… I had to leave and he promised he would help me leave the country but I had to… I just had to sell a little more and than… I- I'd be doing the same thing, but I'd be mobile and away from them." Ever the Girl Scout, Molly magically fished out some tissues from her bag and handed them to the tearful man.  
"What were you doing?" She asked, calmly.  
"Isn't it obvious?" It was lovely to have mastered the ability to mute people, Molly thought.  
"I was dealing drugs… mostly heroin." Finally, Lance exhaled. "My boss wanted to move me into smuggling."  
"Why couldn't you just stop?"  
"They would have killed my family. I can't have that." It was a relief to Molly to hear him begin to breath normally and she leaned over to take his hand.  
"You must have been very scared, Lance." Molly soothed him, intertwining their fingers. "So, Sherlock was going to tell your wife?"  
"No," He sniffled, drawing confusion from both Molly and Sherlock. "No, he said he wanted to help me."  
"Why did Sherlock want to help you?" It wasn't like Sherlock to be that honest and force his assistance onto people he… unless he knew and cared about them.  
"He said he owed my cousin a favor." The stranger fumbled with another cigarette.  
"Who's your cousin, Lance?" She asked, taking a deep inhale of his cigarette smoke.  
"Victor Trevor." Molly nodded, still confused. She didn't know the name.  
"Ok." Slowly, she rose up and turned to begin walking away, Sherlock at her heels. "Who's Victor Trevor?" She whispered, turning a corner onto an adjacent, abandoned backstreet.  
"Hmmm?"  
"Who's Victor Trevor?" The whisper had become a shout now as she stopped, turned on her heels and met his ghastly gaze.  
"Victor Trevor is… was important to me." He swallowed.  
"Important how?" She pressed.  
"We were… involved, Molly." The words hit her like a cannonball to the gut and she felt all the air thrown from her lungs by the violent assault. "It was years ago, in Uni…. I haven't seen him since, but that's how I know Lance. Trevor emailed me and told me he'd been acting strange and asked me for a favor; to check up on him." Molly still couldn't breath, there was a burning in her eyes and any moment, she knew her heartbreak would breach the dam. To hide her shame she turned away and covered her face with her hands. "Molly, what's wrong?"  
"I'm so stupid." The words were barely audible, but he managed to hear them.  
"Why would you think you were stupid?"  
"Because I- I thought maybe - you and I… at least when you were alive… I thought… I thought." She descended into that devastated babbling all people experience in moments of emotional shock.  
"Oh." After a moment of confusion, he finally understood. "Molly, that's not… I'm not."  
"No, no, Sherlock. It's ok." She forced a smile through her tears. "I mean, you're gone now… I just feel dumb for not seeing it...I never seemed to have gaydar and I was stupid enough to think that maybe you felt something for me."  
"I do!" He insisted.  
"Like I do you." There was little more to be said. "Look, just, keep your distance, I need my space for a while."  
"You're wrong, though." But, Molly didn't seem to hear him; she had already turned to walk away.


	14. Utilizing The Truth

There weren't many places Sherlock could go. For whatever reason, this form was tightly tethered to Molly and one other place. He had managed to go a few other places, but it took a lot of energy out of him and had hurt last time he tried. This was different, though, and Sherlock kind of knew a moment like this would come. Molly insisted on space and had locked herself in the bathroom to wash the evening off.

So, he came here. The only other place it was feasible for him to transport to with ease. Mycroft had sent his body back to St. Barts morgue but had added the precaution of security. So, there Sherlock stood. Alone next to the drawer that contained his body and for the first time in a very long time, he felt himself start to cry.

This entire experience had stripped him raw to her and she couldn't see it.

It had been ages since he felt this sort of pain and longer still since he allowed himself to cry like this; but there he was…. laying on the floor of Barts morgue wailing like a newborn baby.

The warm water was her only comfort, but it did little for her as she curled herself up in the fetal position in her tub. It was a bit beyond Molly why she was as upset as she was. This wasn't her first broken heart, not by a long shot, but this hurt as much as the very first time; with the very same ache that penetrated her very core and ripped her open like a bag of crisps.

This feeling was so unlike her and she felt that she'd outgrown crying this very hard over any man . Knowing she was an absolute mess, Molly brought herself back from the brink and swallowed the rest of her tears and self deprecation. Deep down, she knew it was going to be ok but, she wondered if maybe this was such a tragedy to her because it killed any thought she may have had that, if he were still alive, Sherlock might still come around.

Maybe, no matter how hard she'd searched for happiness, Molly had always still held out hope that he would love her the way she wanted. That upset her, too, because that wasn't fair to any of the men she had dated over the years; since they'd met.

The ache in her soul may have quelled, but this new self-knowledge was hard for her to swallow.

Upon Sherlock's return to the flat, he sought out Molly, quietly and cautiously, finding her making herself a coffee in a fuzzy white dressing gown.

"Hello." He whispered, walking into her kitchen. Molly didn't react much, though she did turn to face him and acknowledge his existence. "So… I was right." Molly coolly sipped her coffee as she glanced up at him.

"About what?"

"Well, when I said he shot me." She wrinkled her face in confusion.

"Ok?"

"I am certain this time, Molly…. I know what happened…. I remember it vividly."

"Fine…what were you doing in the lab that day?"

"What?" Calmly, she set her mug aside.

"What were you doing in the lab earlier that day?" The pathologist traced the mouth of her mug with her index finger. "I was the last to see you…. I'd like to know what you were doing." He shrugged with a heavy sigh.

"I was looking at his fingerprint, putting things together to trick him into telling me absolutely everything." Another deep sigh. "Victor wanted me to convince him to go into rehabilitation." Skeptical of every word, Molly was finally looking up at him again, studying him; watching for a tell in his expression. "I'm always prepared to bluff, but I needed something more this time… "

"You don't remember." She interjected.

"I had just ran a blood test on him. I didn't want you to know I was using the microscope only because, if you didn't know, there was no chance of you getting trouble."

"Why would I get into -"

"I took his blood while he was sleeping… on the couch in that room at the back of that alley… and that's where I tried to convince him to go to rehab." Sherlock looked away a moment. "He didn't mean to shoot me, Molly. I was leaving, he was panicking…. it was a misfire, and I fell off the fire escape."

"Ok."

"Just ok?"

"You're finally telling the truth." Sherlock met her look quizzically. "Well, you finally look genuinely embarrassed, so it must be the truth." With a chortle, he turned and began to pace a bit in the living room as Molly finished her coffee.

"We're going to have to tell Lestrade." The detective muttered.

"Well, what and how do I tell him? I mean, he thinks I'm mad, Sherlock. He thinks your death has finally cracked me." This made Sherlock genuinely smile and he stopped across from her at the table.

"What do you suggest?"

"Me?" Taken aback, she leaned away from him in her chair; eyes clearly questioning.

"Molly, you know I haven't been myself since…" Sherlock paused, "anyway, I'm not like that anymore, it would seem…. I need your help."

"Well, alright." For a long while, she looked off into space, drumming her fingers against the table, forcing Sherlock to use his new found patience. "I think I have something that I can show him that will help us."

"So, what do we do?" John asked, staring across his kitchen table at Greg Lestrade as his wife, Mary, poured them tea.

"Nothing." The DI let out a loud, heavy exhale.

"What do you mean, 'nothing'?" It wasn't in John's nature to just give up, particularly on his friends.

"Exactly what I said: nothing." Greg took a long gulp of his tea. "Honestly, I think that's the best thing we can do for her right now; leave her go and hope she asks for help." John scoffed and this and looked to his wife for support.

"But, how will she even know to come to us for help if we don't reach out for her. I mean, we need to sit her down."

"You want to do an intervention on Molly?" Mary was obviously shocked at her husband's suggestion.

"Well, yeah!"

"Darling, she's just mourning. We should go to her and talk to her, but not with any agenda." She argued.

"Now, just- hold on." Greg couldn't help it; years in his job showed him how rare it was for people to change and gradually they only did when they could. He was very pessimistic about her situation. "What makes you think she'd be keen to take any of our help? No… no!" Animated, he waved his arms around to emphasise his point. "We wait for her to ask for help. Any help we offer her will not be worth a damn if she doesn't want it."

"Molly's not a drug addict, for god's sake. She's our friend who's having an exceptionally hard time with a friend's death." Mary interjected, fire in her belly. "Don't talk about her like she's a junkie when she's just a woman with a broken heart."

"Who's running around the city with her dead crush, Mary. She's a damn mess! I'd send her to Bedlam if it was still open!" Vehemently, Greg rose from the table.

"Greg, I don't think Bedlam would be at all appropriate." Mary whispered, but was shouted over by the detective.

"Do what you want, Mary, but I'm not messing with all that." His whole body deflated as he flash his eyes between the couple. "I'm not going to force my help on someone who doesn't want it." He explained before dismissing himself, leaving Mary and John alone again in silence until they heard the front the door close.

"So, how are we going to do this?" An obviously disappointed John asked his wife, who just shook her head.

"Maybe I'll just go to talk to her."

"That may be best." He offered, bringing the mug to his lips. John hoped for the best, but fully expected the worst; he'd been hoping to sit her down and convince her to get help. His wife, however, was far smarter than he was and he completely surrendered to her leadership in this particular department. Lazily, he watched the family of birds that had built a nest in their little garden through the kitchen window, jealous of how simple their life looked from where he sat.


	15. Tea With Mary

With her child down for a nap and the house empty, Mary trotted out to her usual hiding place, baby monitor in hand. Hidden in a big false rock she'd acquired, she carefully pulled out the box of cigarettes and her lighter.  
Exhaling the first puff, she slid down the back of the shed into a squat and examined her surroundings. Mary would never have a completely normal life and that was ok with her. Since Sherlock's most recent death, though, she wondered if it may finally feel more…. every day.  
Leaving her old life behind had been hard but, in some ways, she wanted a little bit of quiet for at least a little while. And she was happy with John and the baby… wasn't she?  
Frustrated with her default of interrogating herself like a suspect, she stood back up to finish her smoke, just as she heard a beckoning hiss behind her, in an alleyway behind their house.  
"Lestrade isn't here is he?" Molly whispered, as she approached her friend.  
"No, dear, no one but Sheryl and me." Mary shook her head.  
"Ok." Still a bit skeptical looking, Molly approached. "May I?" She asked, reaching toward the smoke.  
"Yeah, finish it. Only a few puffs left."  
"Thank you." The pathologist gently laid her temple against the shed, exhaling the soothing smoke.  
"So,... Molly.."  
"I'm not crazy." She couldn't help but interrupt and, of all people, she desperately needed Mary to believe her. Bobbing an affirmative with her blonde hair, Mary continued.  
"Whats going on?"  
"Sherlock is with me right now."  
"You mean, he's still alive?"  
"I don't know." Molly took a long drag of the cigarette, bringing it down to the filter and then casting it off. "Can we- I come inside?"  
Mary didn't hesitate and Molly, frankly, was grateful for the ally. Lestrade didn't believe her at all and John…. well, she wasn't sure. Probably thought she needed hospitalized. Honestly, she couldn't remember the last time she wanted a cup of tea more and accepted Mary offer of a cuppa.  
"You know, Molly," Her hostess asked, turning to put on the kettle "we're all really worried about you." I am too, she thought, running her hand on the dining table placemats and staring down the uncharacteristically quiet Sherlock, who'd taken an odd interest in his shoes.  
"I'm aware." The long walk had made her feet heavy, so, she turned away from Sherlock and took a stool at the kitchen island. "What do they think of me, Mary?" Her friend hesitated,perhaps taken back a bit, or trying to soften a blow.  
"They're concerned." Molly wasn't happy with that answer, it was a cop out as far as she was concerned.  
"Tell me the truth, Mary." Pleading as hard as she could with her eyes, she held Mary's gaze for a long while. Just as her lips began to part, though, the scream of the kettle interrupted them.  
"They both think you need help." Mary said, pulling out tea bags. "Raspberry tea alright?"  
"Sure."  
"John wanted to give you an intervention, you know." Molly scoffed. "Any cream or sugar?"  
"No, thank you." Mary turned around with the mugs and set them down, seating herself on Molly's left.  
"Lestrade wanted to leave you be. He said that you would ask for help when you were ready." Molly's tear ducts began to burn, she desperately hoped the steam from the tea would curb the urge to cry somehow.  
"What did you say?" She asked before taking another drink.  
"I said… I said you were just in mourning… and needed a friend." Though she could tell it was a partial lie, she accepted Mary's supportive words with a smile.  
"I wish that's all it was, Mary." Fidgeting on her stool, she placed her cup back on its saucer. "We just - we need to know what we're up against when we go talk to Greg. Because, I think I have evidence for him and Sherlock has finally been able to put the memory back together."  
"Wh- What do you mean?"  
"Well, the injury to his head… his mind palace had...I guess, wings missing or something." They both chuckled at the suggestion.  
"For god's sake." Sherlock finally broke his silence with an irritated exclamation across the room.  
"Sherlock's getting restless." Molly rolled her eyes.  
"Does that mean you have to go?"  
"God, no, I barely drank any of my tea." Mary softly chuckled.  
"So, uh, tell me… what's different about him?" Molly froze and threw a wary glance in Sherlock's direction.  
"He's more emotional. I've never seen him this way. It's bloody annoying." In an attempt to change the subject, Molly got down to business and reached into her pocket to pull out the plastic baggy."I found this at the crime scene." She explained, gently setting the plastic wrapped paper on to the counter. It'd been folded into eighths, if she remembered right, either way, it was a much smaller rectangle in this form.  
"What is it?" Mary didn't dare touch it.  
"It's lab results. I knew it was important, but I didn't realize how. I found it because," She strained as she reached into her other pocket and brought out a shiny stone. "this was laying on top of it… light caught it just right to distract me." She smiled, turning back to her tea for a time.  
"Results for what?"  
"Sherlock ran a blood test on his killer." Nonchalantly, she blew steam away from the top of her mug and admired her view of the window above the Watsons' kitchen sink. In her peripheral, though, she noted the gentled shock that settled on Mary's brow. "I don't want to share details. I just… I don't think Greg will listen to me." She let out a sigh before returning to the hot drink. "I was hoping he would be here."  
"Well, he was, but he hasn't been around here since last night." Beyond them, Molly heard Sherlock clear his throat.  
"So impatient, you!" Molly exclaimed, flashing daggers at him before turning back to Mary. "I haven't been able to hold a steady conversation for ages… I swear, it's like having a ten year old tail you."  
"What - uh- what is he doing, now?" Molly could read Mary's current expression very well.  
"He's telling me to kill you." Maintaining her straight face was hard, especially with Sherlock giggling in the background, so she took a sip of tea to mask her smile and absorbed Mary's slight facial adjustments. "For goodness sakes, I'm joking, Mary. He's standing in the corner, moping because we're just sitting around." Her friend exhaled in relief and let out a small laugh as well. "He's a bit different, yes, but he is still Sherlock…. and he has a case to solve. Without John." She frowned, feeling a slight flush rush to her cheeks. It was hard to swallow down how stupid she felt for her crush and she could tell that was written on her cheekbones now. "He only has me now… so, I have to see this through… I mean, even if he isn't real… I can't help but think that this is still something I have to do. That he wants me to do.. or would want me to do this. "  
"We're just worried, love." Molly felt the shake of Mary's friendly hand on her shoulder before she looked up and saw it.  
"I understand that, but you must see how ridiculous it is to all of a sudden not trust me. I've never given any of you a single reason to think I would ever lie, except for the one time I had to to protect Sherlock. So, if you were ever not going to trust my judgement, the last place that should ever be is in regards to Sherlock Holmes and his death."  
"I don't disagree, I just have questions."  
"Well, save them for later." Molly grabbed the baggy as she stood up from her seat and made her way to the door. "Thanks for tea."  
For several minutes, Mary sat alone in the kitchen until a soft rustle from the baby monitor she'd set over by the tea kettle on the counter broke her revery. The baby would be awake soon and she knew she may not get another good time to make this phone call if she didn't make it now. Pulling her cell out of her back pocket,she scolled through the contacts and found the ring of connection oddly comforting.  
"Yes, it's me. Listen, Molly was just here and I thought you should know." Not able to stand sitting anymore, she got onto her feet to pace. "Well, she brought something with her that she wanted to show Lestrade…. a piece of paper. I guess Sherlock ran a blood test on someone and Molly thinks it was his shooter." She shook her head. "No, she wouldn't tell me... Listen, I don't know why you even asked me to do this, I just trust you… which believe me, is not an easy feat, all I ask is… what are your plans for Molly?"


	16. Whether I'm Crazy or Not

"Don't be ridiculous. No harm will come to Molly, Mary." Mycroft insisted, understanding Mary's insinuation. "I am just curious as to what she's up to. She'd been making… an inordinate amount of decisions that are contrary to her character and, given her claims and past relationship with my brother, I feel it's worth investigating." Seating himself comfortably in his brown leather wingback chair. Shifting from shoulder to shoulder against it's button-decorated back to enjoy the warmth it had absorbed from the fire it sat facing. "You needn't worry about anything. You simply made a friendly check-in with the relative of a friend you recently lost. Thank you for calling. I'm doing well and am sorry to hear Molly is having such a trying time. I will speak with her soon." He clicked off his phone and released a loud exhale as he raised his left hand up to rub his temples.

Perhaps his brother would never give him rest. Even in death, the imprint he left on the lives on a handful of people still managed to leak into his life. Under no condition would he verbally admit how emotionally obligated he felt to look after Sherlock's friends, rather he might say he was fulfilling a last request. It wouldn't be a lie, but it wouldn't be the entire truth.

Maybe he loved these people, too. Getting involved as he was, though, was against his own best advice. Frankly, it exhausted him, but he just couldn't seem to pull himself away. The creak of the heavy wooden doors to his office bought his attention and he looked up to see his ever faithful assistant, Anthea, bringing in a tea tray.

"Thank you, Anthea." She smiled and was prepared to simply leave when he stopped her. "I am going to need you to make a pick up for me." A loud, heavy exhale released through his lips.

"Which one?" Anthea asked, pulling out her cell phone. "Hedgehog, again?" The little code names they'd given Sherlock's friends always brought a small smile to his face.

"No, dear." Mycroft adjusted in his seat to pour his tea. "The Dove." Anthea raised her eyebrow and nodded before returning her attention back to her phone and touching a button that would guide her to one Miss Molly Hooper.

"So, this is urgent, then?" She asked, opening a cupboard in the far corner and retrieving a jacket to wear over her signature black dress; there was a chill in the London air tonight. Unseasonably cold for October, she wondered if it was calling on snow.

"I'm afraid so." The tea flooded Mycraft with warmth as he took a long sip. "Please, do forgive me for sending you back out."

"It's no problem, Mycroft. I've run through snow drifts in heels for you, you think a little cold will stop me?" Peeking around the antique door, she gave him a wink and returned his smile before bounding out of the room and the house.

Alone with his tea and the fire, Mycroft began thinking about what he wanted to say to Molly Hooper as he watched the flames in the fireplace dance. Deeply wishing, all the while, that he didn't care about this woman and could allow himself to let the pieces fall where they may, but, here he was, following the siren's call of all human beings to give a damn about other human beings.

This frustration and heartache, though, was simply the aftereffect of his love for his brother. If only he hadn't cared about his brother, ... yes, yes, of course, blame the dead man. He scoffed at his own thoughts. After all, it's much easier to place blame on something or someone else. Everything that was happening was Mycroft's own damn fault. No other way around it.

"I know he'll be here." Sherlock assured her, as he guided her down an alleyway. "This is where he stops to have a smoke half way through his scheduled shift."

"When is that?" Molly groaned, clutching her coat tighter around her worn body.

"Anytime now." It bothered her a bit that he didn't turn around to look at her. Since last night, he'd avoided looking directly at her for too long. Her meeting with Mary was mixed blessing simply because he stood silent most of the time, hands in his pockets, like a bored statue. Solemn and indifferent to the state he was now in.

Something had fractured between them and she wasn't sure what. The thoughts that swarmed her mind, though, distracted her from the problems between him and herself, because they were far too weighed down by the anxieties of the unknown; would she even be able to resolve this? Was he even real? Why her?

But, as she saw the dark figure of the D.I. come into view, faintly illuminated by the outlying stretch of the streetlamps light, she knew she had to focus and there were more pressing matters at hand. She allowed him to light his cigarette before she stepped forward.

"Hello, Greg." Her voice broke a little, but not her resolve, as he turned to meet her eyes.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was full of gravel, only softened by a hint of concern. Perhaps he thought Molly was going to ask him for the type of help he thought she needed; psychiatric intervention. She even bitterly imagined he'd support electroshock therapy or suggest a lobotomy. By this time, it was clear to her that anything supernatural freaked Greg out beyond belief and he refused to even entertain the possibility of her vision of Sherlock being real.

"I came to talk, Greg." Molly made a concerted effort to keep her voice steady and appear small; she'd taken enough psychology classes during her schooling and dated enough men to know that the typical male was drawn to being the white knight for a perceived damsel in distress.

"About what?" She would be lying if she didn't admit she was relieved.

"He's not going to want to look at the paper, Molly." Sherlock asserted from the position a few yards away. He'd taken a moment to examine Greg's face, which wasn't focused on or turned toward Molly. She released a deep sigh and decided she was going to try anyway.

"I found something at the crime scene a while back that I thought you might…."

"What did you find?" Finally, their eyes met and a little relief rose in her.

"Well, Sherlock told me he ran a blood test on his shooter…"

"When?" Suddenly, he seemed angry and Molly took a step back, feeling pushed away by his change of stance. He'd turned his whole body to face her and gave an air of intimidation and, perhaps, challenge. "When did he tell you he ran any blood test?" Unable to speak, her jaw fell and she struggled to find words.

"Lie!" Molly heard Sherlock insist. "Just lie!"

"I knew it." Greg exclaimed before she could get a word out. "Molly, you need help and until you accept that, stay clear of me." Without another word, he cast off his still flaming filter and pushed past her.

"It's still relevant, Greg!" She cried into a gust of harsh wind. "Whether I'm crazy or not, you need this. You need me." When Greg stopped walking, she wondered for a moment if that was a good sign, but soon knew it wasn't, when he turned back toward her.

"You know, you sound just like Sherlock." The DI shook his head. "Just like him and he's not here, Molly. He's gone." He began pleading. "Stop doing this to yourself, Molly. I'm not going to let you do this to me. Do you understand? You're not going to do this to me." When he turned his back to her again, she realized Sherlock was right and she'd find no help there.

"What now?' She asked Sherlock.

"Well, I'm sure Mycroft will be around soon… we stopped to see Mary, after all." Molly shook her head and made her way back out to the street from the alleyway. After several steps, he finally said the words that had been sitting on his tongue for hours. "Have I… done something wrong, Molly?"

"Why would that matter?" She asked, still look forward toward the glow of the traffic lights, wincing at the random, cold gusts of wind that would periodically pop up and tousle her long, loose hair.

"Molly…" Sherlock's voice was barely audible, a small plea nearly lost in the breeze. Mentally, she floundered for a moment, debating over what to say, but she was too embarrassed and too hurt to speak on that, instead, she offered all she could muster before Anthea climbed out of the large, black car that pulled up in front of them at the end of the alley.

"I'm sorry."

Those words released from her, she turned to Anthea and walked to meet her where she stood, just outside of the car, behind its open door. Molly stepped in, around her, and admired her concentration, pattering off a message, she assumed, to Mycroft without looking up.

"Mycroft says Mary was afraid he was going to hurt you, Molly." The girls shared a laugh, though, their eyes didn't meet,... Anthea's were still fixed on her smartphone screen.

"Why, on earth, would he think that?" Molly mused.

"Because," Anthea said, finally looking up. "he may have made a few people disappear for her in the past… She only called to return a favor."

"I know she didn't want to." Sinking into the seat of the back of the car, she stared up through the sunroof. "Why is that open?"

"Well, I spent a long time in America, getting my advanced degree and I grew found of the smell of Halloween." Anthea considered the view they had of the night sky above them. "Sadly, it just doesn't smell the same here, but, sometimes, if I close my eyes, I can caught a hint of the same scent on windy nights."


	17. A Nightcap With Mycroft

Molly was not a bit embarrassed by how much she enjoyed the scent of Mycroft's home... particularly his office. A combination of woods and spices with the smallest hint of apple and once in the office, the lingering scent of a rare cigar that she knew was same lavish brand her father would indulge in every Friday evening after work. It smelled like home to her and she couldn't help but feel comfortable there, no matter how intimidating and uninviting Mycroft had seemed in the past. In fact, she'd had to fight the urge to slip off her shoes and seek out her fuzzy slippers and dressing gown.  
Beside her, Sherlock silently fidgeted. He'd asked her not to go to Mary; he'd told her she'd ring Mycroft and Molly said he was being ridiculous and they needed to know where Lestrade's head was at… and a back up plan. Now, here they were. She'd been right,... well, so far. It was still to be seen if Mycroft was going to help or hinder. In moments she may very well find herself in a straight jacket in the back of a white van headed to some secret Bedlam far away that only people such as Mycroft had any means to send people.  
Anthea's heels clicked against the wood floors in the manor-like house. Molly couldn't say whether the architecture was Edwardian or Victorian, as she couldn't tell the difference, but Mycroft loved to keep the theme. A mildly irritated Anthea leaned over an antique buffet cabinet to turn on an electric sconce and illuminate the rest of the long, wide corridor.  
"Really wish he'd get better lighting, but he has this fascination with dimly lit halls." Anthea complained, leading the way. "I can't tell you how many times I bashed my thigh against that sideboard. You know he has a damn chinese kang table upstairs in his drawing room? Just right in the middle of a big room, lit only by lamps. I literally ate carpet recently and not in the fun way!" Molly could feel Sherlock's confusion and knew he must be blushing as the girls stopped, allowing Molly to laugh and express sympathy for Anthea's exhausting trials as Mycroft's right hand woman. "I promise you, if he ever needs me to move in full time, I'm installing flood lights on the ceiling." While it was really no more than about forty feet, the corridor's lighting and decor gave the effect that it was a lot farther and Molly took a moment to marvel at the tall, thick wooden door that Anthea needed both hands to properly push open. "Well," Anthea sighed, enter the office and freeing herself of her jacket. "Here she is." Before dismissing herself, Anthea returned her jacket to the cupboard and gave Molly her goodbye with a warm smile.  
"Have a seat, Miss Hooper." Mycroft walked around to the front of his desk and gestured to the set of brown leather button wingbacks that faced his fireplace.  
"Doctor." Molly hadn't moved, merely stared at him defiantly.  
"Pardon?" He paused a moment, reached towards his little drink cart that been hidden on the far side of the desk.  
"I'm a Doctor, not a Miss. I put a lot of time, effort, and care into earning that title and I'll thank you to use it." Mycroft didn't drag his feet considering, but he he did raise his brow in surprise as he brought the drink cart into view.  
"A thousand pardons, Doctor Hooper." He emphasized her title. "Would you like a drink?"  
"A strong bourbon, please." The elder Holmes lip twitched into a small smile and the younger let out a small scoff. Molly paid no mind to either of the brothers, stepping over to the far chair and plopping in it hard enough to hear the hair gush out of it somewhere. This obviously displeased Mycroft, Molly could see the it written in his facial lines; the micro expressions humans make to give away their feelings. She graciously accepted the glass he offered her and, as he turned to take his own seat, she passed a questioning glance at Mycroft. It was only natural to be a little paranoid. Sherlock read her like a book from his spot to the left of the fireplace and gave her nod; she could trust the drink.  
As she took a sip, Molly cast her eyes over to Mycroft who was rubbing his temples and bending over toward her.  
"He hasn't slept." Sherlock announced. "At least not well or recently." Not able to speak freely, she squinted her eyes at him in question. "The aspirin on the desk, the way he is sitting, the lines and circles aroundhis eyes…"  
"Why haven't you been sleeping, Mycroft?" She interrupted Sherlock, satisfied with his deduction.  
"Pardon?" When their eyes finally met in the light of the fire, she could see what Sherlock meant; his eyes were a bit blood shot as well.  
"How long has it been since you slept?" She continued.  
"I believe we are here for me to ask questions, Doctor Hooper." There was a threat in his voice, but Molly paid no mind.  
"Maybe you should take a nap first." She suggested, leaning into her chair.  
"No, thank you. We have business to attend to."  
"We?"  
"Yes, you and me….I have questions." This time, Molly shifted forward, setting her glass on the table beside her and leaning in to Mycroft.  
"He noticed the aspirin and the circles around your eyes." Mycroft blinked, possibly biting his tongue; but absorbing everything she said. "If he hadn't have pointed those out and told me, I never would have noticed that your eyes are a bit blood shot as well."  
"How do you plan to prove to me that you are not lying or in need of urgent psychiatric care?" Another threat rumbled in his voice. "After all, everyone knew you were in love with him."  
"Stop." She whispered.  
"Followed him around like a puppy."  
"That's not true."  
"He'd kick you and you'd still come back; heeling at his ankles."  
"That's not fair."  
"Tell me, Doctor Hooper, about Tom… some sort of fetish of yours." Molly's eyes were just as fierce as his voice. "Did you choose him and make him get his hair cut that way so that,... in the dark, if you squinted…."  
"ENOUGH!" Molly shouted, rising from her chair and throwing her glass into the fireplace. It raged for a moment, as if to acknowledge and sympathize with her embarrassment and anger.  
"Molly," Sherlock's voice cut through the air and bought her attention away from murdering Mycroft with her pupils. "pick up the clock." He pointed to the clock on the mantel piece. Sherlock saw her confusion but urged her on, so she stepped forward.  
"I can prove I see him." Molly confidently picked up the timepiece and began studying it.  
"I broke the first one." Sherlock explained as Molly's eyes glide over knot of wood. It was screened in glass, but framed in oak with a small, magnetic spinning pendulum adorned with white looking gems. "I was twelve and we were fighting in his room… I'd read his journal and found out about some of his more personal exploits… He'd had an affair with one of his professors." Again, Molly cut Sherlock short.  
"Married man… 19….Was it english lit?" She asked, turning to face him with the clock still in her hand.  
"He'd been with a girl before that… but that was his first adult relationship." Sherlock babbled. Mycroft said nothing, simply allowed his jaw to fall open.  
"It was the librarian for me." Molly said, turning to replace the clock where it belonged. "Something about her glasses and fascination with obscure East Asian literature."'  
"He actually taught Russian." Mycroft tensed his lips into a brief smile before gesturing back to the chair she'd been sitting in.  
"So, accents?" Molly's eyes widened, teasingly, as she returned to her the warm leathe.  
"Neveryoumind." At this point, Mycroft's' attempt to appear menacing was sheerly laughable to her, but she could feel the mood change. "What does he want?" It was almost a whisper and clearly born from a place of pain. Molly meet Sherlock's eyes, waiting for an answer.  
"I want Lance to be ok… and I don't want Darren to go to jail for a crime he didn't commit." Sherlock explained without much hesitation.  
"He was shot by Lance…. Victor Trevor's cousin, Lance." Molly began. "Sherlock just wants him to get help." As she pulled out the test results again, she was relieved it was finally accepted.  
"That's not too hard." Mycroft sighed, giving the paperwork a knowing look as it brought it out.  
"We originally thought it was a Darren Blake, bloke, and mentioned it to Lestrade. We don't want him in jail when he had nothing to do with this."  
"Well, is there any evidence against him?" The big brother gingerly ran his fingers over the writing on the wrinkled piece of paper.  
"Not to my knowledge, we're just concerned."  
"We?" He didn't even look up, though she could tell his eyes had widened by his brow.  
"Sherlock and I." Mycroft nodded at this.  
"Molly, tell him I meant what I said… in the helicopter… after… Magnussen." There was a pleading in his voice.  
"Sherlock says he meant what he said in the helicopter after he shot Magnussen." When Mycroft met her eyes, she knew she'd made an effect.  
"Does he follow you everywhere?" He asked, refolding the paper and setting it on his side table and glancing towards the fireplace.  
"Mostly, no one else believes he's there." Mycroft seemed to consider this moment, fussing with his hands, finally settling on elbows to knees and fingers interlocked.  
"So, he may linger behind you, if you were to leave to the room, than?"  
"If he wanted."  
"Would you mind, terribly fetching Anthea for me." He let out a great sigh. "We'll need her assistance."


	18. Silence as a Response

Mycroft said nothing for a long while, fearing the loss of his sanity if he opened his mouth. He couldn't help himself, though. The entire time Molly was here, he'd been racking his brain, convinced she must need help and that she was exhibiting extreme symptoms of a heartbroken young woman. Listening to her, though, he'd determined those thoughts were merely latent misogyny. Whatever was going on, he was more and more convinced that she may be telling the truth… and it scared the hell out of him.

"I…" The words got caught in his throat; he choked before he cleared it. "I'm not sure if you're really there, if you are, I think…. Well, I know why you didn't choose me." Mycroft took a deep breath and poured himself another drink from his chair. "Not that you need my blessing, but it is alright... " The sweat that was gathering upon his brow glowed in the light of the fire. "I told you once, how much I cared," He referenced their last Christmas at their parents house. "I truly meant it. I can't sleep without…." Another long pause as he swallowed at the lump in his throat. "...seeing things and, if there is a god, may She help me, I keep wanting to pick your brain on these visions, but I cannot." Mycroft took a moment to take a long drink from his glass. "It is not in my nature to waste unnecessary time on sentiment, but… I miss you. You were right when you said that I couldn't handle a broken heart. I'm considering taking early retirement." A great sigh released from his lips as he tossed back the last of his drink. "Anthea would stick around, I know. She, well, she cares for me in a way that is not as stifling or restraining as that of our family… It just makes sense. I'm not up to all this anymore." The cognac was going to his head, he could feel it as he waved his arm around to frantically gesture towards his desk. "Perhaps, I'll take a holiday and sift through my options. It's been ages since I took a real break. The world and… you seemed to call me back every time, so I ceased in my pursuit of a holiday and extended rest." More of the caramel coloured liquor was rushed past his tongue directly from the bottle before he continued on. "You exhausted me, Sherlock, but… you also… revitalized me on a frequent basis; gave me a reason to keep going as I am. My station in life is one I am quite fond of, don't misunderstand me, I just am not certain that I wish to continue on this way." Mycroft was certain he was approaching inebriation now, as he poured more into his glass and raised it to his lips. "You've seen Prime Ministers and Presidents…. half a term and they've aged a decade. You can imagine how I might look if I didn't take more time and care in my appearance." As he finished the last few drops, he took a moment to jingle and play with the cubes of ice left in the glass as he stared at the fire. Leaning back in his seat and tossing his right leg over his left, he continued swirling the bits around his snifter, enjoying the sound. "Losing you makes me feel old, Sherlock. I feel tired now, and completely… completely deflated." Mycroft was a bit hoarse of voice as he spoke. "I am lonely now, Sherlock." Before he could even complete his exhale, there was a knock on the door. Time to get back to work.

As the girls entered, Mycroft rose; leaving no evidence of the events that had just taken place. Somehow the click of Antheas shoes on the floor was a comfort to him and soothed him; perhaps he associated it with long gone child memories of his mother or another prominent female in his life at that time or it could have just been her. Either way, it was nice to be in her presence again and hear the loud, hard clatter of her shoes echo off the walls.

Making his way back to his desk, he brought out a piece of paper and began to scribble on it.

"I need you to give this man a new identity and put him in a rehabilitation hospital. I'll be emailing details while you're en route." The crisp sound of the paper being released from its binding with the legal pad filled the room and Mycroft could see Molly cringe; disturbed by the sound.

"Will do, sir." Anthea smiled, accepting the paper from him. "Anything else?"

"I'll text you." He explained, waving her off and turning his attention to Molly as the calming serenade of her heels faded. "And you…. I understand you didn't sleep at home last night?" Molly shook her head.

"We slept in a crypt."

"For god sakes." Mycroft grumbled. "I do hope you sleep well, Dr. Hooper. This should all be over soon." Molly gave him a smile.

"So, should I head home now?" Without much care, Mycroft waved her away. If she'd have turned around, she would have seen the most uncharacteristically sad expression on Mycroft face as he watched her go.

Part of Anthea's job, as always, was mysteriously picking people up. It was one of the best parts. She particularly enjoyed plucking her fingers on the keys of her smart phone, having it make those clicky noises in response and she especially liked watching men out of her peripheral vision become extremely uncomfortable. Sometimes, she would make fun of them in her head, because they made it too easy. As a matter of fact, a lot of the men's egos were so fragile, she had had to use her bodyguard a few times. It's not like she was suppose to chat with them anyway. she would reply politely to their questions of course, as general curtesy was expected, but she didn't have to do anything else for them.

Tonight was a bit different. Giving someone a new life wasn't what was new about this, it was the circumstance. As the car grazed the curb outside, she felt her heart jump up to her throat. It always did at these moments, though. Soon, she would swallow it down. There was work to do.

Not much, but work nonetheless.

Tapping onto her screen, she typed out her updates to Mycroft. He had run and he might be high. When he did finally get in the car, he was terrified. The poor man was coming off a high and some mysterious men in black had subtly offered him an ultimatum. Body still in haywire, paranoia was coursing through his veins.

"Take the long way." She ordered, tapping on the glass partition that separated the front from the back. With all the poise that she could muster, she turned to face the shaking Lance Trevor. "Everything is going to be fine." Anthea cooed, adjusting her position to face him and sit closer, they were now touching knees. Lance smelled like he'd just left a fire, she guessed he'd been standing around a trashcan fire set by a vagabond. After all, they weren't far from a frequently used underpass. "Lance, would you like to hold my hand?" Her voice was like silk and she knew he could feel the tenderness in it. Slowly, he allowed his eyes to shift up and focus in on hers. With all she could, Anthea tried to use every pore on her face and her posture to show love and patience. It wasn't easy. Not because she didn't feel it, but because this was an intentional manipulation of her face rather than an unconscious one.

The young man swallowed hard, but sat himself up and shakily extended his arm into her sturdy, humble one and she pulled him closer to her; into a tight, warm hug. His clothes were a bit tattered, but she'd already dropped some off at the safe house for him, so she wasn't worried about the holey gray pull over sweatshirt and roughed up jeans. She was, however , concerned about getting him bathed soon, but they'd also see to that. Carefully, she leaned back in the seat and held him to her; simply waiting for him to cry it out.

It reminded her of the first time she'd retrieved Sherlock Holmes for Mycroft.


	19. Members of a Secret Society

John was use to being picked up by magically appearing cars. Painted black with tinted windows, meant to harbour secrecy and carry a creepy air of the mysterious. As much as it annoyed him, he had to admit he felt as though he was the member of some elite secret society. Truth was, he actually was a member of an underground organization… He never spoke of it, only knew it'd be an ignorant idea to do so and he never broke any of their unspoken rules, even if they weren't hard to follow.  
As the wheels of his shrouded vehicle slowed to a stop on the curb outside of the pub he was to enter, he released a great sigh. This was usually Anthea's station; she was the one that pulled up and retrieved him for Mycroft… now, he was the one doing the abducting. Taking a moment to clear his throat and pull at the collar of his white button up shirt and adjust his deep red jumper.  
Another sigh, gathering strength before his door opened and his white trainers on the pavement outside. He could only hope this wouldn't be a huge ordeal; that the person he was sent to retrieve would just get in the car without any sort of fight. But he knew Lestrade better than that and wasn't expecting much at all. He'd be lucky if this meeting turned out in his favour, but that didn't mean he wouldn't put up a good fight. If Greg was going to be unreasonable,that wasn't his fault. After all, he didn't have the long, soft legs or hair of Anthea; he couldn't expected to be as alluring or convincing to someone as she was... and that was without opening her mouth.  
The door had little bells on it that jingled as he entered. John could only assume that was a holdover from in its last life as a corner store. No one could be expected to hear their ringing over the sound of feisty, drunken footballers and the television broadcasting their teams fighting it out like bloodthirsty barbarians, so it was relatively useless in the building's current state. It took John a while to see him in the far, darkened corner of the pub. Not long after, he and Greg caught each other's eyes for a fleeting moment.  
Quick to turn away and back to the screen, John realized Greg was going to attempt to ignore him; he didn't want to talk. In fact, he even took to placing the pint beside him to his lips as John got closer as a nonverbal message of his lack of desire to pursue conversation.  
"Now, don't be like that, Greg." The doctor pleaded as he approached, shifting his weight from the front of his foot to the back.  
"Like what?" Greg didn't make an attempt to even glance over at John, he focused himself on the screen and let out a cry of excitement and clapped his hands together as he abandoned his drink back on the table with a thud.  
"Now, we need to talk about this."  
"About what?"  
"Don't do this, Greg. She needs us." John insisted. "We can't leave her to her own devices…. whether she's right or wrong."  
"Right?" Finally, Greg was giving him his full attention as he turned in his chair and met his eyes with a quizzical look. "You can't possibly be thinking she's seeing ghosts now, can you?"  
"Well-" The DI groaned, leaning away from his friend in his chair, completely frustrated with John.  
"You can't be serious!"  
"Well, stranger things have happened…. and they usually involve Sherlock." John said with a small, tight smile.  
"No, no…." Lestrade emphatically waved him away. "I'm not doing this. I'm not going to force my help on people that don't want it!" Arms crossed tight against his chest, he had already returned to the match. "I learned my lesson with Sherlock."  
"What do you mean?" Solemnly, John pulled up a chair and sat down at the corner table as his friend reluctantly readjusted in order to talk his friend.  
"I met Sherlock when he was not long out of Uni." He explained. "He was strung out and I had him in the tank a few times… He finally proved his worth, though. I was doing a solid for a friend and was signing him out to release him…" He swallowed hard, mouth going dry now, he took another gulp of his beer. "... he told me about my wife cheating on me." Tossing his head to side a moment, John caught a glimpse of the pain in his eyes. "After that, he started showing up at crime scenes… I kept telling him he had to get clean… kidnapped him and dropped him off… had the courts force him in…. nothing worked until he came to me and actually asked for my help." Greg scratched at his head, stood up a moment, and shrugged. "I had to learn the hard way that you can only let people know you'll be there for them when they're ready. It can't be forced. I had to stop talking to him, stop letting him on crime scenes….Everything." He shook his head and took another drink.  
"Yeah, but Molly's not Sherlock." John argued. "And she's certainly not on drugs of any sort."  
"Are you sure?" Despite the rambunctious footballers, the silence between them muted the entire pub. John hadn't even considered that and was now desperately hoping Molly wasn't on anything. "After all," he continued. "she has been doing other things our dearly departed Sherlock would do."  
"Yeah, but-" John choked on his words a moment. "Maybe that's not it…. What if she knows something we don't." Again, Greg tried to dismiss this with a wave of his hand and a groan, even turning back briefly to the television screen. "She helped him last time." The detective seemed to consider this a moment but soon added. "Yes, but was she anywhere near there that night?"  
Shrugging, the doctor gave up and got up to use the loo and order his own pint before sending off a text to Mycroft before continuing the conversation. This was going to take a little longer than he thought.  
"So, what exactly would convince you to come with me right now?" He asked, returning to the table to enjoy the cool bubbles of his ale.  
"I'm not sure you could say anything, John. This isn't about convincing me of anything but changing my morals."  
"I'm telling you that none of us know what's going on."  
"What's there to know? She needs help and isn't ready for it." John scoffed at this. "And there's no use forcing it on it. I told you." They argued back and forth for the better part of an hour, playing an invisible tug of war between themselves. As time went on, the game was completely abandoned in thought by either of them. Finally unable to find any other argument in his arsenal, John leaned over and spoke directly into Lestrade ear, hopeful that what he was said wouldn't completely evaporate into the cheers and jeers of the energetic patrions. "Mycroft sent me." A slight wave of shock flowed over Gregs face and he nodded understanding. He immediately rose to his feet and pulled on his jacket.

Molly Hooper wasn't sure why, but she was in the mood for music with dark overtones. At the moment Lauren O'Connell's cover of "House of the Rising Sun" was making it's eerily comforting melody at home in her tiny her flat, filling every crevice and corner and climbing the walls like a shadow.  
Showers were a place of solitude and self reflection for her; therapeutic in their way of washing away the stains and dirty remains of the length of her day each and every night. On occasion, they'd even give her the strength in the mornings she wasn't sure she could carry on. They were like hugs no lover could give her at times when she felt everything was falling apart. Climbing out was the hardest part, but with a noble grace she was sure she only felt, she placed one foot out of the tub and pulled the other out behind her and immediately sought refuge in her white, fluffy dressing gown.  
Music still playing, she made herself comfortable on the sofa and began polishing her toenails with slow, careful precision. It'd taken her a few years of regularly painting them to be able to do as well she could now. However, she was distracting herself, so more attention was being paid to her task.  
She missed Sherlock and he hadn't followed her home from Mycroft's. She wasn't certain, but a great fear was growing in the pit of her stomach. There weren't many options and none she was sure she should investigate. As she sat back to let her nails dry, she could no longer fight the stinging of the tears growing in her eyes. Maybe it was time to mourn him, but she wasn't even certain he was dead anymore or he even what he was. The worst thing Sherlock could ever do to her is leave her with the pain of not even knowing if or what she should mourn.


	20. Meeting of the Secret Society

Lestrade always found Mycroft's home stuffy, particularly his office. It was old and filled with scents that reminded him of the dorms of the boarding school he'd been hauled off to when he was a boy. Walking through that corridor was like any of the times he was dragged off to the headmaster after curfew. As a teen, he was a young, frustrated boy that wasn't sure how to handle himself. Unfortunately, he chose to cause trouble. The dimly lit, aged hallway brought him back to those nights when he'd gotten caught running amok on the grounds; smoking cigarettes, building bonfires, finding ways to graffiti far off corners of the vast building and exploring his sexuality in the moonlit valleys and off by the pond on a forgotten edge of the campus.

The listless feeling in his chest didn't release him even as he and John left the hall dimly illuminated by sconces and entered Mycroft's office; aglow by the fireplace and a scarce few lamps on the floor and atop the overwhelming desk. Large and heavy enough to have a sincere presence and personality in the room. Lestrade wasn't sure of its age but he knew it'd been awhile since he had seen a piece of office furniture like it and began distracting himself with thoughts of how one may move such a piece across the room alone, much less how on earth anyone got it into the building in the first place.

By the time Lestrade and John had entered the office, Mary was already there sipping on a mug of tea in the leather wingback farthest from the door and Greg held back to allowed to allow the couple to sit together. He wasn't really focusing at the moment on much of anything, but he did manage to absorb the just of a few whispered words between the Watsons. At least enough to know that their infant daughter was swaddled in a basinet just up stairs.

"Good Evening, Detective Inspector." Mycroft's voice brought him out of his own head and into the moment. As he turned his attention to Holmes, he noticed he was being offered a drink off a small cart. Being honest with himself, he gave a nod and pointed to what was either vodka or gin and a mixer of fizzy water. Whether this conversation lasted five minutes or five months, it was going to be a long conversation that he really didn't want to participate in. "I trust you'd rather be anywhere but here, but… I do believe you remember how valuable your help was to Sherlock."

"I waited for him to ask for help, I didn't force it." Lestrade argued, excepting his drink.

"You did more than that and you know it." His voice was throaty, with a subtle hint of gratitude that Greg almost didn't catch it and was wise enough to not acknowledge. He simply nodded and rose the glass up to his lips as he turned to make his way to the center of the room, closer to the Watsons and the warmth of the fireplace.

"So, now that we're all here…. what are we going to do?" John asked the room. Greg turned with a long, loud exhale to rest his elbow on the mantle shelf and sip as his drink in preparation.

"The question is, is there anything we can do." Added his wife, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs.

"Or should." Perhaps his irritation was far too obvious as he spoke, the words were nearly spat.

"Well, I think it's obvious she should, at the very least, have her security level raised…" Mycroft's back was turned away from them as he prepared his own drink of a deep, red tinted spirit Lestrade assumed was cognac. "That way, if she shows any signs of being a threat to herself or anyone else, we'll be able to provide her with necessary care and attention, rather than waiting for the problem to overwhelm any one person."

"That would be a comfort." The white mug of tea she held seemed to glow in the firelight as she took a drink.

"Well, yeah, but… is that all we should be doing right now?" The frustrated doctor fussed in his chair; uninterested in the offer of drink from their host.

"You can't force help on someone, they have to want it." Again, Lestrade was certain his irritation was obvious and he felt the overwhelming sting in his core he had once felt when he thought of Sherlock. A deep dull aching for him to get help and the waves of quiet anger settling just beneath the surface because Sherlock was either avoiding professional help or wasn't pursuing it seriously. Glancing over at Mary and John, he wondering if they knew Sherlock saw a therapist for years or that, every week when Greg would pick him up, he'd be crying. All Greg could do was give his hand a brief, strong squeeze and see him off with a supportive smile at Mycroft's door. For all the chill and indifference Mycroft put in the room, Lestrade would never let anyone say the elder Holmes was a 'bad' brother. He'd learned quickly in those early days that the Holmes' merely showed their love with stern, quiet support and rigid focus on pure logic. It may be alien to others, but if one observed it long enough, the love was obvious; just lacking in warmth and the fuzziness of cuddles. That was their mother's job as far as they were concerned.

"Yeah, well, maybe not, but why shouldn't we at least try?" Greg wondered if John had the level of experience he had with addicts or if what John had experienced was just the polar opposite of his own. The very concept John was arguing refused to wrap itself around Lestrade's own mind. Unable to summon any more words, he flitted his eyes up to meet Mycroft's as a request for support.

"I still think she just needs time. Give her space and see what happens." Mary intervened. "Mycroft's right; keep an eye on her -"

"So, the answer is to spy on her?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows at the slight raise of voice John directed at his wife.

"No-" Her own glance at him over the rim of her rim of her mug and firm tone informed all involved that the situation was under control. "I am simply saying that, we don't even know if she needs help. Monitoring her is a way of keeping tabs on her and making sure the worst doesn't happen." John inhaled deeply, prepared to further, but more carefully argue his point when Mycroft spoke up.

"So, we're agreed. Do nothing for now. Just assure her safety." Unable or unwilling to argue, the group simply nodded and settled into silence. Mary's full focus seemed to rest on her tea. Given the hour, the moment she finished her drink the couple chose to take their leave. Certain to quell that slight tension that had developed on their ride home.

Greg though, opted to linger, elbow still resting on the mantel shelf as he continued to sip at his drink, which he now knew was gin. He had turned to stare into the fire and watch the flames dance.

"You should know, Greg." The shuffle of Mycroft's feet behind him told Lestrade he was making his way to the arm chairs and only the sigh and crinkle of the fabric was needed to confirm this; he didn't need to turn around. "I wish I was as certain as you that she was lying."

"Not you, too." With a great groan, Greg adjusted to face him.

"There are things in this world beyond even my comprehension." He paused to take a large gulp of his drink, Lestrade could see in his eyes that Mycroft was properly intoxicated at this point. Probably medicating the emotions and confusion that seemed to overwhelm him. "You know, she dragged his body around the city because she was convinced he told her someone had been taking certain liberties with it where it was. I had to store it elsewhere for a long while."

"Where's it now?"

It'd taken a while, but Sherlock had gotten use to the cold by now, mostly. The chill in his core still made him restless; throbbing with a dull twinge of pain he could never quite shake. Perhaps it was loneliness, or the loss of the life and person he was, either way, he'd never felt so broken.

Knees to his chest in the dark corner of the room, he found himself unable to hold back his tears as the full force of his decision settled in his soul, forcing it to churn and exacerbate the ache he was already feeling for them cold. His primal need to call out, he knew, would never be heard, so he allowed himself to mourn his life; crying out like a wounded animal into the ether.


	21. Decisions Made

It was instinct, Molly knew, that led her back to Sherlock. Opening the door to the cold storage again felt like coming home, but because a family loss had brought her back; not for a warm, happy visit. For a very long moment, she stood in the doorway, examining him from his position sitting on the floor, hugging his knees like a child clings to their favorite stuffed toy. He had to know she was there, but he refused to turn his eyes in her direction. So Molly cautiously approached him, squatting on his left and using the wall for back support. Licking her lips, she opened her mouth to speak, but he stopped her.  
"You have to do it, Molly." His voice had settled just above a whispered.  
"Do what, Sherlock?" She wasn't sure what to make of his expression as they finally met eyes, he was certainly serious.  
"Your job." He said flatly.  
"Oh, Sherlock -"  
"I can't - stay like this, Molly." Shaking his head, she could hear small cracks in his dry voice. "What would you propose we do? Keep me frozen here forever? Working through you to solve crimes?"  
"No, of course not." Her body was betraying her, threatening to simply burst forth tears. "But, you can't just do this to me. You can't just leave me after all this. All my friends think I'm mad and are certain to commit me. Dead or alive, Sherlock, you are a storm and I refuse to let you just pass over like this, after ages of bearing down on me and tearing things apart."  
"Molly,-"  
"No, I matter, too. You can't go doing this people, it's not fair."  
"Molly,-" His voice was soft and, as his hand shifted over to hers, she would have sworn on any holy book that she could feel its cold weight on hers. "Please understand…. I know I have done nothing but hurt you for ages. I know I don't deserve any of the affection and understanding you've given me. I thank you profusely for that. But-" Squeezing his eyes shut, he tilted his head down to open them and refocus on their hands where they rested on her knee.  
"Please, don't make me do this." She pleaded through tears, hoping the primitive instinct of survival would overcome this momentary desire of self destruction.  
"Molly, if I've ever needed you to do anything before, I need you to do this." Sherlock struggled to maintain his steady tone, but his twitching face and the little cracks in his voice gave him away. He didn't want to die. He couldn't want to die. Molly knew of his struggle with depression and the times he'd attempted to end his life. From ODs, to butchering himself, to jumping off buildings, she'd been there. Unable to help herself, she reached out, hoping to just touch his cheek and offer some comfort to him. All she found was icy cold air, chilling her extremity to its bones.  
"You can't really want this, Sherlock." She sniffled, wishing that they could at least hold each other at that moment, but that wasn't to be. They existed on different planes now and it was simply a blessing to see each others' faces. Molly couldn't take that gift for granted in a moment like this, no matter how much her heart cried out for his embrace and a warm shoulder to cry on. By the look on his face, Molly knew Sherlock was desperate to feel her arms fastened around him as much as she did his. "Please, anything but this. We can think of something, anything…. just… please… you can't leave me like this."  
"With all of me, I wish that wasn't the case, but I can't exist like this. There's no life in this limbo, Molly. If there were any other choice, I would have thought of it already." Their eyes meeting again, that intensity returned. The feeling of looking at a piece of someone that was so private, so personal and deeply ingrained in their true self flowed over her like before. Providing her with all those strange emotions; like you invaded someone's deepest thoughts and state of being, the only difference this time was, she felt welcome. As if he'd laid out the mat for her, bidding her to see him as he truly was.  
"What if you don't die?" There was silence for a moment, but soon, he tried to argue.  
"Molly -" Sherlock shook his head.  
"No, I'm serious." There was always hope, she knew. "You want to pass on. You don't want to exist like this… but, what if it doesn't work like you hope?"  
"You know it will." Much like in life, he spoke with such certainty that Molly took offense; albeit only a slight amount.  
"No, neither of us do, Sherlock." The pathologist stood up, as if to reinforce her point, as well as stretch her legs. "I could cut you open and take all your organs out and you could still be standing there…. watching and waiting for the bright light or a blanket of darkness to show or wrap you up in it."  
"Fine." He relented. "You're right. I have no idea what will happen when you - do your job."  
"See, you can't even say what you're asking me do, can you?" Molly hadn't meant to shout, but she did. "How sure can you be that you want something if you can't even voice it?"  
"I don't want it, but it's what's best. It's the proper thing to do."  
"Fuck proper!" The reverberation of her scream startled them both, she was certain. "You're not a show horse with a broken leg."  
"It hurts, Molly!" Finally, he met her intensity, though he quickly curbed his tone and volume. "It hurts. It all hurts. I see what I'm doing to you, I can't speak to anyone else, I'm tethered to your side or my own corpse like some sort of willful puppy. I'm already dead. You won't, by any definition of the word, be killing me, Molly. You'll be liberating me." A bit unsteadily, he rose to his feet and approached her, hands outstretched, reaching for hers. The cold weight was all she could feel, nothing solid wrapped her fingers and pressed her palms together. Molly held them there, though, in a prayer position between the chill of his. "Please, Molly, free me." The request was more than she could bear. Her knees buckled and sent her down to the floor and more cold.  
"It's the only way?" She asked, regaining her breath and holding back her tears.  
"It's the only way I believe could possibly work." Mournfully, she nodded and stood herself back up.  
"This is really, truly what you want?" Before him now, was the Molly he had known but rarely saw, stoic and standing firmly with the sort of wisdom and strength he'd only seen in the ancient pine trees his parents had shown him in California when he was little.  
"Yes, Molly. This is what I want." Sherlock nodded, comforted by her assertiveness.  
"And you can think of no other course of action?"  
"No."  
"Ok, then." Giving him a nod, she turned to leave. "I'll be right back."  
The long walk to the locker room was the longest trek she'd ever been on, but she urged herself on. Wearing her certainty and love for Sherlock like armor, she changed into a pair of scrubs and pulled her lab coat with a sort of dull, numbing aching throbbing beneath the surface with every beat of her heart.  
If this was only way she could love Sherlock, then this is how she would love Sherlock.  
One last deep breath after tying back her hair and checking her worn reflection in the mirror and she was as ready as she would ever be. He didn't have a choice, but he was waiting for her as she took the long journey back, literally standing beside himself. It was a fight to keep her mind clear and focused, given the circumstance, but it was necessary. The only comfort she felt was the knowledge that she knew, after their adventure across town, that she could move him and was grateful for the morgue's aids.  
Molly had no fear of anyone sneaking in and asking questions; she wasn't going to rush this. Taking her time to move the body was all part of the process for her in this case. As she adjusted his body on the table, she looked back up at the other Sherlock.  
"What are you going to do?" Swallowing hard, she stumbled with her words. "What I mean is, are you going to watch or…"  
"I'm hoping not to have to wait around too awfully long." Taking a moment to worry at her bottom lip, she pulled the recording microphone up to meet it and took a deep breath, but thought better of it.  
A bit shakily, she looked down at the Sherlock on the table and allowed herself her hurt. Bending over and placing their faces nose to nose, she let it out. Releasing a single tear onto his face and planting a kiss on his lips.  
The world came to a stop as she felt him inhale and saw his eyes flutter open.


	22. Don't Retire

Sherlock said nothing but grabbed on to her, startling Molly right out of her skin.

Carefully, she took his hands away from her waist and ran to find a glass or mug. Once at the sink, Molly poured him a glass of warm water. Not hot, she didn't want to shock his system. With the same amount the care she had been showing, she pressed the chipped mug to his lips. Slowly, he began to shiver more. Wanting to get him out of there as soon as possible, her first goal was to rewarm him, as soon as he stopped drinking, she left him again, but quickly returned with a blanket and began tearing her clothes off. She even heard a seam breaking in her shirt, she tore off it with such force. Molly had no idea how deep in hypothermia he was, but she wasn't taking chances as she climbed on to the table with with and thrust his head to her chest.

It took him a while to finally start shivering; all she could do was furiously rub at his extremities and keep the blanket around them. As Molly did this, though, she found herself silently praying to any deity that would listen to her to let her have this Sherlock back and not immediately take him away.

"MMmmmyyyyy -" Sherlock could barely talk, but seemed with it enough to hold on to the blanket and point at his hair with the other.

"Your head?" With his jolted nod of yes, Molly slowly pulled herself off the table and

helped him sit up to get a better view. A shaking gasp released itself from her lips as she cried

out. "You weren't shot…. You weren't shot…" His head started bobbing a bit; it would try to

shake and nod, but holding it steady with one hand, she gently pulled at the hair that was still

cold to the touch. "I'm going to have to shave this patch to get a better look, you probably need stitches." The poor man groaned in response, but as she was starting with the shears, the door squeaked open.

A boy fresh out of medical schooling stood in the doorway with his eyes wide.

"Hold his head steady for me, I need to stitch him up." It took Molly a moment to realize he was still standing in complete shock. "Come on, MOVE!" Finally, he obliged, holding Sherlock's head as gently as possible.

"Ma'am." The student's voice croaked over the buzz of the shears.

"Yes?"

"Forgive me… but…. why are you both naked?" Molly felt a momentary twinge of panic but quickly swallowed it back down. Why hadn't she realised she was in her birthday suit?

"He' s hypothermic and I had to rewarm him."

"You had to get naked for that?" Molly didn't look up, but sensed the discomfort in his

face. She was far too busy inspecting and cleaning Sherlock's wound.

"Hypothermics sometimes tear at clothing and, in extreme cases will do things like hide under something or literally try to dig in the ground."

"Really?" Finally, she met the young man's green eyes.

"Yes," Glad he was absorbing it, she turned back to Sherlock. "You should know this. It's called Terminal Burrowing. A bit akin to what hibernating animals do in the Winter… they'll crawl under tables, into a tree or something… just to find that safety, comfort, and possibly warmth."

"I - uh - had a few bad years in school actually, I was surprised I even made it through."

He let out a nervous chuckle, but she kept her cool indifference.

"Well, then, you should spend your career listening the hardest to you fellow doctors, to your patients, and to your books. They're going to be your very best friends." Carefully, she tilted Sherlock's head, giving the student a better view. "Now, watch me stitch this up."

Slowly, Sherlock seemed to warm, by the time she was done stitching him up and

dismissing the student, he was returning to a cold, but safe body temperature. Now, her only

thought was what clothing she could possibly put him in as she began to pull on her own.

"Well, I can get you some scrubs, but they're not very warm." Sherlock simply nodded at the offer, not paying much attention, but that was fine. He needed to focus on shivering anyway and they would take the blanket with them. "I'm not leaving you here again, not even to get a chair. Can you walk?" She asked, offer him her hand. Meekly, he accepted, but his balance was more like that of a baby deer than a man. With a great sigh, she gave a firm nod and swiftly executed a fireman's carry. The nervous squeals and groans of Sherlock informed her that he was still a bit disoriented and that was fine as long as he didn't panic. "It's ok, Sherlock. We're just heading to the locker room for clothes, remember?" She hushed him and he seemed to relent.

Despite his weight, the trek back to the locker rooms was much less of a trek than they had been just a few hours ago. Her feet moved faster and more determined with each step she took toward the doors. Once she was through the doors and could set him down, though, she found two more prayers answered. His sizes trousers weren't hard to acquire although he did have to wear an oversized shirt and someone had abandoned a wheelchair in a far corner, near the showers.

It was odd, dressing him and he was a bit like an oversized baby, still coming out of his disoriented state, he'd occasionally give a kick. As she pulled on his shirt though, he grabbed at her, pulling her into a hug. For a moment, she just stood there, but she couldn't resist the urge to return it, wrapping her arms around him and running her fingers through the curls above the bald patch she'd had to give him.

"Well, now, Sherlock. That's enough of that." She declared, breaking the hug and turning to retrieve the chair. "We have to go see your brother." With a smile, she offered her hand again and help him into the wheelchair. Though, not forgetting to wrap his blanket around him before pushing him out into London's sunlit morning streets and into a cab. Worry was leaving her for his wellbeing. He was still cold, but he was safe enough to leave. Once you become that chilled, it takes a long while to ever feel warm again. She wished he was more coherent and responsive, because she had so many questions, but she might not have been ready for the answers and they could wait. As a result, though, the ride to Mycroft's house was silent.

As they pulled up, she began to feel a sense of relief, reaching over and squeezing Sherlock's hand. Not that he was expressing any of the emotions he normally would, but he didn't pull away. The hardest part was pulling Sherlock up the front steps, but the driver helped some. With all she could she pounded on Mycroft door with a fierce, closed fist as long as she could. In response to her insistence, a groggy, though still well put together Anthea opened the door and immediately gasped, slamming the door in their face.

"One minute!" She insisted, turning and racing up the stairs to Mycroft room. Why in hell

would Molly do this without phoning first? Was she mad? Well, truth be told, she probably would be if

she were in the same shoes. Frantic, she burst into Mycroft's rooms just as he was pulling up his

trousers.

"What in blazes!" Mycroft swore, turning away from her as he fastened his button fly.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft, but- I-"

"Well, spit it out." Swallowing a bit, she approached him and took both his hands,

resulting him merely staring at her in confusion.

"Sherlock is downstairs with Molly."

"What?" Anthea led him down the stairs.

"I didn't stutter." She said, opening the door to reveal precisely who she said was there.

"Don't retire." Sherlock stuttered with great effort considering his current state. Recalling the fireplace confession, in his own shock, Mycroft could only return a nod and move back to let them in, but he wasn't sure how he would ever work through this particular escapade.


	23. He Chose You, Molly

Sitting in Mycroft's steam bath, Sherlock finally felt himself become warm for the first time in a very long time. It was nice to finally feel the dry heat of the sauna wrap around him like a blanket, but permeate him deeper than it could. He had been so cold, he was surprised to feel what warmth felt like. He couldn't remember.

"Are you feeling better now, Sherlock?" Molly whispered, fussy about an examining him. With a moan, he picked his head up off the wall he was leaning against and opened his eyes to look up at her where she sat on the bench seat behind him.

"A bit…. I'm quite famished, though." Gently, he began to stretch his muscles that were finally relaxing in the heat.

"Anthea mentioned something about a soup and sandwich and I'm certain she put the kettle on as well." Molly placed her thumbs at the base of his neck and rested her hands on his shoulders, massaging him gently to help encourage and maintain blood flow. As he gave a thankful groan and leaned forward to give her better access, she let out a quivering breath. They were skin to skin, her bare knees, free of the white fluffy towel, were resting against his naked sides. Never had they shared this level of intimacy before and he was leaning into it, rather than away.

"That sounds nice."

Shaking her head and drawing herself back to into the moment, she hummed a question. "Soup and sandwich. Sounds good. Do you know what kind of either?"

"Uh, no. I mean, you know Mycroft's diet. I'm assuming chickpea noodle."

"That's good. A lot of people turn dumb when they can't cook with meat, but Anthea was never afraid of it and is quite skilled as well."

"Yeah, I think the sandwich may be cold cuts or tuna. I didn't really ask." She shrugged, still working on his back, though she'd moved lower now.

"Doesn't matter. It's the soup to which I'm looking forward."

"It's nice to have you back." She said, carefully. When Sherlock didn't reply, she continued. "Sherlock, what was -"

"I'm not sure, Molly." He lied.

"Alright. Then, if you can't tell me what you were and what I was talking with…. can you tell me why you didn't tell just tell me you were gay?" She sniffled, the heat was loosening her sinuses.

"Because I'm not gay." He kept his tone steady, still leaning back into her hands and bent over with his elbows meeting his knees.

"Then, was Trevor just a phase?"

"No…" He took a very deep sigh before adding. "I did love him… but I'm not gay."

"So, you're bi, than?"

"I don't define my sexuality…. I love who I love."

"If you say so." Somewhat abruptly, she rose and hopped down off the benches. "I'm going to go change. You should shower." She said, fixing her ponytail.

"Why are you upset?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes.

"I don't know." With a bit of a huff, she left the steam room and Sherlock stood up slowly, prepared to follow. He could walk, she hadn't abandoned him and left him broken, fumbling, left to his own devices, but he was unsteady and kept himself close to the wall.

One hand braced for his own balance, the other holding up his towel, he wobbled his way out and into the connecting bathroom. Molly, with her steady legs and frustration powering her, was already in her knickers and bra. "Do you want my help?" She asked, offering to assist him balance in the shower, but he shook his head. It was no matter to her, turning away, she pulled on her trousers as he ducked behind the glass door of the double shower.

The room was covered in blue subway tile. Aside from the steam room, it was the only room this updated in the entire house. Even the kitchen, though it had modern conveniences and appliances, kept appearances of the time which it had been constructed. Before she left, she stood outside the glass shower door. "Will you need me after?"

"No, Molly, it's fine. Go eat." The callousness with which he dismissed her only made her more irritated, but she happily abandoned the bathroom and left him to his own devices.

When he felt fully human again about twenty minutes later, he stepped out and walked over to the counter Molly had been standing at not long ago to find his own clothes next to where hers had been set. The counter was enough to help him balance as he pulled on his boxer briefs and trousers, the warmth of comfort of the tee shirt and hooded jacket Anthea had chosen to leave for him was exactly what he needed right then. Tomorrow, he'd wear his signature dress shirt and Belstaff, but tonight he craved a good meal and some sleep.

Making his way down the hall, he found himself taken by surprise by Anthea.

"Mycroft wants you to eat in your bedroom and have a nap." She explained, passing him as she stepped off the grand staircase and onto the second floor.

"My bedroom's at Baker Street." He pouted, following her like a whiny child.

"Regardless, he thinks Molly deserves a break from you, so I'll be bringing up breakfast and tea later, unless you want his maid to do it."

"God, no!" Anthea laughed at his enthusiastic response. The Holmes boys had different ideas of what good help meant and Sherlock could not stand the company of the meek, older woman Mycroft employed. Perhaps since he was rarely home when she works, he saw it as no matter, but Sherlock had made her cry several times without any effort at all. In a way, spending the day here again felt similar to when he came home during the three times he went through rehabilitation programs for drugs.

"So, Sherlock…." Anthea carefully placed the tray on the two person dining table in the corner of the room and laid out the food for him. "Molly could really see you?"

"Yes." His tone was steady, but his voice dry.

"How?"

"I didn't believe him when he was a boy." Mycroft began, taking a seat beside Molly at his kitchen table. "But, he used to say he could go places in his sleep…. visit people. As he got older, he'd come down in the morning having already read the newspaper headlines." He paused to take a sip from his mug of tea as Molly listened intently, slowly chewing a bite of her sandwich. "But one morning he frightened our mother…. insisting that our grandfather had passed in the night." Molly stopped.

"He told your mother her father died?" Mycroft nodded and took another sip from his mug.

"She was certainly about to insist it'd been a nightmare when the phone rang… and of course it was her sister calling to give her the news." Molly's hand flew to her mouth to keep her jaw from dropping and losing her food. "She had some sort of fit; terrified poor little Sherlock. We didn't realize what had been going on until he was in university and met this lovely girl who practiced Witchcraft and was familiar with it."

"Well, what was 'it'?"

"I can astral project." Sherlock couldn't even look up into Anthea's eyes. "I've put great care into controlling and limiting it, but sometimes it just happens. Usually when I need it the most." He took a loud slurp of his broth and wiped off his lip as he pulled the bowl away.

"So, your astral projection was like someone sending out an SOS?" She gave him a bit of a teasing smile.

"I suppose." Again, Sherlock wasn't looking up; he was busy refueling his neglected body.

"And you chose Molly."

"Yes, so?" Anthea giggled.

"Good night, Sherlock." She smiled and shook her head as she left the room.

"He chose you, Molly." Mycroft set his mug aside and adjusted in his chair.

"So?" Brow furrowed, she began spooning noodles into her mouth.

"Well, it must mean something." With this Molly set her spoon down and leaned back, crossing her arms in front of her.

"Why should it mean anything?" She asked. "Maybe I'm just more sensitive to that 'realm' than you." She tried to gesture to it with flexing hands.

"Perhaps." Mycroft nodded his head forward and let it roll to one side. "Or maybe you were chosen."

"Chosen? Thats absurd." She insisted and Mycroft shrugged.

"Maybe, maybe not. Either way, Anthea has a room made for you upstairs. You can sleep here today and leave when you wake up." Mycroft rose, pulling at his jacket and adjusting his cuffs. "We, however, have to go off to work. Make yourself at home. Anthea will be back to check on you and make you another meal." With that, he was off and Molly was left to her own thoughts, a seething anger sitting beneath the surface. She should talk to him, but she wasn't sure at all what she would say.


	24. You Daft Little Sht

Sherlock couldn't sleep. After all, his body had had more than enough rest. Still, laying on the large, four poster bed in the quiet, dimly lit room, certainly relaxed him. It was nice to feel whole again, but the problem was that thoughts of Molly wouldn't let him be. He couldn't understand why she was so angry with him. Perhaps he would never know, but he really hoped they would still be in each others lives when this was all over. He needed her. More than he could really say, but he feared she needed more than he could give her. Pacing around his room, he wondered, if maybe he shouldn't bother correcting Molly on her assumption of his sexuality. It was clear to him that she now felt wounded because she thought she'd missed something and had been pining over man that simply didn't want or love her as she wanted him simply because he wasn't wired that way. She would be wrong, though, about all of that. When he was chasing down and destroying Moriarty's network, he thought of his friends, but none kept him as warm as his thoughts of her.

Even now, Molly hadn't seen all that he endured; dealing with the fact that he might already be dead, frollicking about London and exposing such a deep part of himself. Mind Palace Sherlock was also enjoying being home, though, rather than freezing his non existent butt off in the chill of Autumn.

He wished she understood that, of all his friends, she was the only one that would have been open to the way he contacted her; the form he took to approach her. After observing his other friends' reactions, they may have ignored him.

Well… John might have been more perceptive than Letrade. Sherlock rolled over and ran his finger over the receiver of the landline phone in the bedside table. The plastic was cold and hard, but welcoming as he slid his fingers beneath it, to pick it up and bring the corded phone to his face. Strumming away the required numbers as he sat up, he found the connecting ring somehow both comforting and anxiety inducing.

"Hello?" Sherlock had meant to respond, he meant to say 'Hello' back, but as he opened his mouth, nothing came out. "Hello?... Mycroft?" His heart skipped a beat and he impulsively replaced the handset. He just couldn't talk. Not only that, but thinking back to last time, he had made a big mistake in revealing his resurrection. Face to face was best, certainly, but he wasn't sure how to sensitively approach it. Maybe he would ask Molly later, if she was keen to help him again.

\- John had received the call from Mycroft's number about a half hour ago and immediately wanted to investigate when there was no response on the other end of the line and no intrusive and mysterious cars pulling up out of nowhere. So there he was, skulking around the elder Holmes' house. At the glass French doors through the glass, he could see into the kitchen and was surprised to see Molly wrapped in a large red blanket and pouring herself some apple cider at kitchen counter.

Gently, he rapped at the door and when his and Molly's eyes met, he was surprised to see her expression go blank. Maintaining eye contact, he knocked on the door again. Finally, sipping at her cider, she approached the door and slowly opened it.

"Can I help you, John?" She asked, stepping through the door onto the patio, keeping him out of the house.

"Yeah, ah…. did you ring me a bit ago?" Scratching his head, John continued to look around her, confused.

"No, I didn't." She said plainly and started to walk, as a mass within the comforter back to the doors.

"Why did I get a call from here then, Molly? What's going on?" Molly sighed and slowly turned back around.

"I wasn't lying you know." He furrowed his brow a bit and nodded his head.

"Ok."

"He's the only other person in the house." With a shrug and another loud exhale, she gently ushered him in, confused as he was.

"What do you mean?"

"It means I think you should sit down. I'll be right back." She supposed she couldn't blame Sherlock, she just really wished that he would have waited a little longer… At least until she had her damn nap, she grumbled to herself as she climbed the stairs to the room she hoped he was in.

Knocking on the door in the dimly lit hallway, she listened to the rustling within and the beat of his footsteps pattering across the floor until they were right on the other side of the door and the knob began to turn.

"Yes?" He whispered, as if the lighting encouraged a softer tone than the typical conversation volume.

"He can read a caller ID, Sherlock." She shook her head. "He's downstairs in the kitchen. Came poking about because he was alarmed."

"I'm sorry." Molly said nothing, just gestured toward the staircase before stepping back and leading the way. She was still clutching to the large, heavy blanket and it flared as she made her return to the kitchen.

"Brace yourself." She muttered to the still confused John as she picked up her glass apple cider and drank at it greedily. About the time she made it to the fridge to refill her glass, she heard John swear behind her.

"Now, John…"

"No, …. no. I don't know what the hell kind of game you are playing…" John insisted, angrily. "But this is ridiculous. You die one more time…. one more time, Sherlock, and you don't come back."

"John….-" Sherlock stepped forward, but John rebuffed him, throwing his arms up in front of him and turning his back.

"I'll talk to you later." Obviously hurt and angry, John made his exit through the glass french doors and disappeared from view.

"Well," Molly sighed, sipping at her cider, still wrapped in the blanket. "it's good to have that out of the way."

"I suppose." Swallowed hard, he continued to stare at the doors. Seeing this, Molly made her approach, abandoning her drink on the counter and still cloaked wrapped up in the warmth of the thick, large sheet.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. That must have been hard." He nodded, but at the feel of her hand rubbing against his arm, turned to her in confusion for a brief moment before letting his expression relax. "Are you alright?"

"F-fine." She examined his face for a moment before responding.

"You don't have to talk about it," Pulling away from him, she flexed her hands to show both palms. "It's ok. I understand." She gave him a small smile before ducking out and tromping back up the stairs once again.

Something in him stirred as she walked away and he wasn't sure exactly what it was. He was usually so in control of his body and now, it seemed as though his feet were moving on their own; driven by some preset in his system. Taking the stairs two at a time, with such speed, silence certainly wasn't possible. Returning to her doorway, she stared at him a moment, before he inched closer.

Confused and unable to breathe, she stared up at him, they were chest to chest now. Sherlock's head took a few gentle bobs back and forth towards her and away; and she could read him again, like before and it was everything she wanted to hear. She would worry about Victor Trevor later, or never, depending on how things worked out. Right now, though, looking at him laid out before her like an open book; eyes pleading but unsure and hands trying to reach around her waist, just waiting for a sign; bidding her permission.

"You daft little shit." Tears welling in her eyes, she threw her blanket around them both, pulling his lips to hers. She couldn't be certain, but she could swear she smelled the profound scents of the morgue and couldn't remember the date for the life of her. Digging her nails into his shirt and the blanket, Molly decided she must never stop kissing him because it was the first thing in a long time that made sense and made her feel less mad…. and she worried it might mean she finally cracked.


End file.
